


A Lost Boy's Guide to Hollywood

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Detective Noir, Drug Use, F/M, Killian gets hurt a lot, Modern AU, Mystery, but he's fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: Killian Jones, put-upon Private Investigator, is hired to find the missing teenage sensation, Peter Pan. With the reluctant help of the mysterious Emma Swan, Killian must make his way through Peter's miscreant friends and acquaintances, into the slimy underbelly of LA in search of the missing singer, all before his scheduled appearance at the Hollywood Bowl in four days time.





	1. The Missing Boy Wonder

**In which a Mr Gold appears, and Killian takes a case**.

_"I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun."_

_\- Farewell, My Lovely_

It was Valentine's Day in Los Angeles, and Killian Jones was halfway to glorious inebriation when he heard the man with the cane stop short outside his office door.

He hadn't been expecting anyone. His landlord had already been by that morning to deliver his customary threats, and walk-ins weren't all that common since he stopped shelling out for the billboard space. He didn't keep an appointment book anymore, but if he did, there wouldn't have been anyone penciled in for this particular rainy Tuesday afternoon. Valentine's Day was great for florists. Likewise candy sellers, fancy hotels. They all made their cut. For them, love was a many splendored thing. Bankable. Exploitable.

But for a private detective? Love was bad for business.

Happiness wouldn't pay the bills. He needed to wait until things went sour again. It wouldn't take long. By tomorrow all those promises renewed under the influence of champagne and obligatory marital relations would already be starting to fray at the edges. Passions would wane. Old resentments would resurface. Jealousy, his old friend, would return as he always did, and Killian would go back to catching out spouses with their pants around their ankles and their hands in the cookie jar.

So he hadn't been expecting company when he'd broken into his mistakenly-delivered Valentine's Day gift basket, using his letter-opener to pry the cork off a bottle of Merlot. It had been a liquid lunch, and now his gut roiled at the prospect of receiving such a visitor without full use of his faculties.

The man in the hallway didn't knock, not immediately, but Killian could see his silhouette outlined against the frosted glass. And he could hear the  _tap tap tap_  of the cane as it skittered across the linoleum. There was only one man Killian knew who habitually carried a cane, and he was the last man in the world who would be coming to him with women trouble.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, he tipped his head back and poured the rest of the wine down his throat, before stashing the empty bottle in his desk drawer. While he was at it he pulled out his gun, and checked the chamber.

Drawing it under the desk, he called out, "The door's open."

After a lengthy pause, the doorknob began to twist, and Killian's fingers flexed against the grip. With the squeak of unoiled hinges the door opened and the man appeared in the doorway, attaché case in one hand, the other leaning heavily on his cane.

"Well, if it isn't Mr Gold," Killian drawled, feigning surprise. His posture in his chair relaxed, his grip on the gun did not.

The new arrival gave the decor a cursory glance, his lips forming a sneer. Killian couldn't entirely blame him. What with the peeling yellowed wallpaper and distinct lack of windows it was a glorified janitor's closet, with barely enough room for his desk.

"Bit of step down from your former premises, wouldn't you say?" Mr Gold remarked unkindly, with a click of his tongue. It was the kind of question which didn't dignify an answer, and Killian didn't give one.

"Close the door," Killian said gruffly.

His guest smiled then, a twisted thing, as if pleased he'd managed to get under his skin, but he took two steps forward anyway, pushing the door closed behind him with his cane. The soles of his shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he moved, a testament to the deluge outside. He'd evidently parked on the street, then, rather than the paid undercover parking, with the closed circuit security cameras, his desire to remain inconspicuous overriding his desire to stay dry. Which was fine if it was discretion that he was after, less so if it was trouble.

"There's no need to be testy," Mr Gold began, spreading his arms wide in a show of good faith. "I didn't come here to dredge up old resentments. On the contrary, I came to offer you a deal."

A deal. When it came to Mr Gold, there was  _always_  a deal. He was a ten percenter, but not the usual model. His words weren't delivered in that slick Hollywood way. This was not a man who possessed a spray tan, or dental veneers. He didn't have a wheatgrass habit, or a personal trainer on speed dial. Not even close.

Mr Gold was a slight grey-haired man with crooked teeth and a rasp in his throat. His accent was foreign, though that wasn't so strange. Barely anyone you encountered in LA these days had actually grown up there, Killian least of all.

But Mr Gold? Nobody knew for sure, but the accent suggested Scottish. Glaswegian, most like. A rough and tumble kind of place, Glasgow, full of rough and tumble kind of people. If the accent hadn't given that away, the steely glint in his eye might have done it. The limp was something else altogether. Maybe he'd spent some time in Belfast. Maybe it hadn't worked out too well for him.

Killian didn't like to speculate. He didn't know much, but he knew that suit had cost the man who wore it a pretty penny. The accent might have been working class, but the man was anything but. Not anymore. Every accruement, every accessory was a status symbol, from the gold Rolex which peeked out from under the right sleeve, to the gold-tipped cane, to the shiny Italian loafers.

 _They were snakeskin,_  Killian thought.  _Maybe crocodile_. Something cold-blooded and predatory, like the man himself.

"And who exactly stands to gain the most from this  _so-called deal_ , Mr Gold?"

No need to beat around the bush, Killian had been around long enough to know how this worked. The thing about Mr Gold was that he always delivered on his promises. He'd built men into titans, and women into their own fucking constellations. He had the power, nay the leverage in this town to raise anyone up to dizzying heights, and make their greatest dreams come true.

What they never bothered to consider, was the price of it all. And in Killian's experience, the old adage rang true; the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Some of the humor seemed to slip from Mr Gold's smile. "Not in a very trusting mood, Mr Jones? I assure you it will be worth your while."

"And maybe if I was some impressionable lass from the Twin Cities with stars in her eyes, that would be enough for me. As it stands,  _trust is earned_. And you and I have not had the most encouraging start."

Gold considered him carefully for a moment, before he shuffled forward to the single vinyl chair intended for visitors. "May I?"

Killian nodded, and waited for the older man to get himself situated, case tucked under the chair, his cane coming to be propped against Killian's desk.

"One of my clients is missing," Mr Gold stated simply, as if he was ordering from a wine list, and not announcing the disappearance of one of his prize cash cows.

"That sounds… remarkably like you're trying to hire me."

"Ah, there are those keen detection skills I've heard so much about," Mr Gold replied dryly. "Yes, I wish to hire you, for thrice your usual rate, if that's acceptable to you."

"Just a moment," said Killian, scuffing his chair forward to disguise the sound of his desk drawer swooshing open as he returned his gun to its usual place. Killian didn't live by too many hard and fast rules, but shooting clients was frowned upon. "Don't you have _people_  for these kinds of things? Former special-forces types with zero human compassion and affinities for too-small T-shirts?"

Fixers, they went by. Kilian had run afoul of a couple in his time. In a city where image was everything, most bigwigs kept one or two on staff to tidy up any… loose ends.

Mr Gold frowned. "Ordinarily, yes. However, of late there have been a number of… incidents. Confidential information spread to the media despite taking all reasonable precautions, and I've come to suspect the problem may be an internal one." A dark cloud descended over his face as he said this, the kind of look which almost made Killian pity the idiot who thought he'd get away with playing both sides.

"Alright," said Killian, leaning back on this chair. "So you need someone who won't sell you out to TMZ. You know I'm not exactly the gossiping type. That I understand. But that can't be all there is to it, or else you wouldn't have framed this little transaction as a deal. So what else is there?"

Mr Gold looked pleased at the question, as thought that was what he'd been waiting for all along. "I mentioned the hole in my security. As it stands, I'm in the middle of recruiting an entirely new team. I'd like you to lead it. I know we've had our differences before, but your work has always been satisfactory. This case would merely be a…" He searched for the right turn of phrase. "… A try-out," he finished, smiling at the Americanism.

Killian had to pause a moment to check this wasn't all a merlot-induced daydream. But when he pinched himself on the arm, all he got for his trouble was the makings of a new bruise. Mr Gold still sat before him, his expression expectant. "You wish… me to be your new head of security?" he clarified, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

Killian was beginning to understand how those starry-eyed girls from the Midwest had felt, fallen under the thrall of this man with his shiny, shiny promises. A job like that, well, it sure beat day-drinking in a failing private detective agency with no windows. It might even be worth giving up one's better nature for.

"Yes, that was my nefarious ulterior motive for this charming little visit," Mr Gold admitted, with generous dose of snark.

"And the catch?" Killian asked, not quite willing to dive into shark-infested waters just yet.

"I wouldn't call it a catch," Mr Gold replied with a small shrug of his shoulders. "A caveat, perhaps. This is time-sensitive. The client has to be found and returned to a suitable state by Saturday, without the press getting wind of it. Or the deal is off."

"I take it from that little proviso you haven't bothered filing a missing person's report with the police?" Killian asked, ethically obligated to pose the question, even if he was already sure of the answer.

Mr Gold made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, almost a laugh.

"So…what?" Killian counted on his fingers. "Three days to find a wayward celebrity? That hardly seems sporting. What if they've fled the country?"

"My contact at Homeland Security assures me that isn't the case."  _Naturally. Because who didn't have a servant of the Federal Government on speed dial?_

"That's assuming they'd be stupid enough to travel under their own name..." Killian pointed out.

"Trust me, Mr Jones, my client is hardly inconspicuous. If he'd left the country, someone would have noticed."

" _He?_ " Killian grinned at the slip. "Alright, supposing  _he_  is still Stateside, three days isn't much of a window. Not for someone who doesn't want to be found. And especially not for someone with means, conspicuous or not. What happens if I _don't_  find him by Saturday?"

Mr Gold shrugged. "Then you can treasure forever those three days where you earned triple your worth, before I hand the matter over to the police. Perhaps you'll even be able to stave off bankruptcy for another month. Two, if you're feeling particularly frugal."

Killian's eyes narrowed at the implication Mr Gold had looked into his finances. How tempting Killian must have seemed to him, up to his neck in past-due notices and operating out of a windowless closet in Hollywood. How exploitable. The perfect pawn.

How he hated to play right into his slimy hands. How he hated that he inevitably would, if he ever wanted to face his landlord again.

"Do I at least get the name of this  _mystery client_  that I'm supposed to be finding for you?"

Mr Gold clicked his tongue. "That's rather sensitive information. I think you can understand that without a non-disclosure agreement in place-"

"I'll take the damned case," Killian interjected. "You know I need the money. So how about let's stop with this game of Guess Who, and you tell me who I'm looking for."

He didn't miss the triumphant smirk on the man's face. Nor did he miss the way the attaché case had instantly found its way to Mr Gold's lap, hands already grasping for the files inside.

"You'll be charged with finding one Peter Pan. I believe you're familiar with the name?"

* * *

There wasn't a soul in the western world who wasn't familiar with the name, no matter how much they might wish otherwise.

Peter Pan.

The teenage singing sensation. His story was legend, his album sales record-defying.

Discovered after posting a video of himself singing in his bathroom onto YouTube at the tender age of twelve. Elevated to super-stardom with the assistance of a few famous mentors, and launched into the stratosphere with four seasons of his own reality show.

A lad who'd gained a legion of dedicated fans who followed his every move to such a disturbing degree that they actually referred to themselves collectively as "Pan's Shadow."

Killian prided himself on eschewing popular culture at every turn, and yet, he could rattle these facts off as easily as he could events from his own autobiography. They were the inescapable factoids that crawled between the edges of modern life. It was practically a national pastime, watching young Peter Pan grow up.

Though maybe "grow up" wasn't really the right way to phrase it, what with the way the lad was turning out.

Like a veritable raft of child stars before him, he hadn't taken the transition from tween sensation to young adult all that well. First had come the drastic haircut. Then the radical sonic shift on his latest album. Before anyone knew it, he was firing his entire support staff, and being photographed falling down drunk outside every venue in town. There were surely only a matter of weeks before the inevitable DUI, or the sex-tape leak after a romp with a Victoria's Secret model. In Killian's experience, there was a certain pattern to these things.

It was little wonder the name Peter Pan was fast becoming a byword for any person corrupted by the hedonistic pleasures of fame.

"Peter Pan?" Killian repeated weakly. "He's your missing client?"

"Presumed missing since Sunday," Mr Gold responded matter-of-factly, pushing a sheaf of papers across the desk towards him. "Non-disclosure agreement," he said by way of explanation, pointing at a spot marked with a cross on the last page. "Sign here."

Feeling a little like he'd jumped headlong out of a plane without a parachute, Killian scribbled his signature on the dotted line, and leaned back.

"Alright, so what's Saturday? Why the deadline? Does Boy Wonder have a date with the VMAs? A photo shoot with Rolling Stone? A hot yoga class?"

"A concert," Mr Gold corrected, ignoring Killian's inane suggestions entirely. "The first date of his upcoming World Tour, in fact. A sold-out engagement at the Hollywood Bowl. I don't think I need to tell you that rescheduling the tour would be a logistical nightmare, and insurance does not pay out simply because the talent gets bored and goes on a vision quest."

"The Hollywood Bowl? In this tempest?" Killian might not have had a room with a view, but he surely wasn't the only one to notice the sun hadn't made an appearance any time in the last fortnight. Whoever had said it never rained in Southern California had clearly never heard of El Niño.

Mr Gold gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Our meteorologists have given me every assurance this last storm cell will dissipate by Friday."

 _Show business_. Not even the meteorologists were safe.

"To be clear, when you said vision quest…?"

"I was being facetious, though the boy has demonstrated some… bohemian leanings in the past," Mr Gold said, as though repressing a shudder. "And a predilection for recreational substances to match. But I'm sure that's something you can look into."

For $600 a day plus expenses, Killian would certainly give it a shot.


	2. The Yellow Haired Dame

**In which Killian watches Emma take down a perp, and is duly impressed.**

_"It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window."_

_\- Farewell, My Lovely_

With Mr Gold's check burning a hole in his pocket, the smartest move would have been to set right to work on locating the errant Peter Pan. Time, after all, would stop for no man. "Tick tock, dearie," Mr. Gold had reminded him as he'd let himself out of Killian's office, an obnoxious tap to the face of his wristwatch for good measure.

Aye, Killian had until 10am Saturday morning to locate the missing popstar, and return him to his minders. Which, if the glowing green numbers of his dashboard clock were accurate, meant he had approximately 88 hours to accomplish the task, with the lad having three whole days head start.

And yet, when Killian pulled out of the parking garage into the makings of another fine evening storm, he didn't make his usual right hand turn that would take him home. Instead he signaled left and took a detour westward, letting the growl of the engine temporarily drown out the sound of the rain.

Killian had plenty of reservations about life in Los Angeles, a decade's worth of grievances, complete with footnotes. But the opportunity to drive a 1969 Pontiac Firebird from Point A to Point B? Certainly not one of them.

Theirs was a complicated love.

She was not the type of car Killian might have chosen for himself. Too flashy. Too American. A restored classic that attracted admiring glances from passing motorists was hardly the ideal vehicle for a man who liked to go about his business unnoticed. And yet, in a town riddled with Rolls Royce Phantoms and stretch Hummers, who would begrudge him?

Aye, she was a car for wankers. Wankers who didn't mind taking out a second mortgage whenever it came time to fill the tank. The kind who woke up in middle age surprised to find they'd lived the best years of their life already, and couldn't afford an affair. The kind whose list of role models had begun with Steve McQueen, and ended with Dirty Harry.

Killian wasn't middle aged just yet, but his car had been keyed enough times that he recognized the pattern. A certain type of man drives a muscle car, and oftentimes, he's compensating. He could excuse himself from their lot, citing that he hadn't actually been the one to purchase her, but that would only get him so far. He had kept her, after all.

Now, Americans always seemed to be extolling the virtues of the great open road, how the ribbons of blue tarmac snaking across land were somehow inexorably linked to their idea of freedom. For the most part, Killian dismissed such things as patriotic twaddle. He'd driven clean across the country, and still nothing had ever compared to being on the open ocean, the wind whipping through his hair, sea spray stinging his eyes.

And yet, he couldn't entirely discount it. The boyish satisfaction that he gained when he pushed his foot to the floor, and the engine growled to life? That momentary feeling of weightlessness when he took a rise too fast, settling pleasantly in his stomach? For a moment or two, he understood what they were always banging on about.

The driving experience on this particular day was dampened somewhat, pun intended, by the weather. In Killian's experience, most drivers in Southern California tended to lose their grasp on even the most basic road rules when the rains set in, and this day proved no different. He counted three near misses before he eventually reached his destination, pulling into the parking lot behind The Rabbit Hole beside an ancient yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

If Killian was going to spend his evening trawling through the social media accounts of the world's most famous 19 year old, he was going to need a stiff drink first.

* * *

The Rabbit Hole, just off Sunset, was not exactly Killian's idea of a quality watering hole. For one, it wasn't a pub so much as a lounge bar, with all the horrors  _that_  entailed. There was the aged songstress in the corner belting out show tunes like her voice hadn't peaked two decades before, her gaunt frame in her slinky blue dress betraying a chemical dependency or two. For another thing, the décor was hideous, all red velour and blue neon lighting.

Now, Killian wasn't exactly one to talk when it came to matters of interior design, especially when considering the sorry state of his own apartment. But sometimes a man just wanted a drink without feeling as though he'd walked onto the set of Cocktail, circa 1988.

And yet, the Rabbit Hole did hold one significant advantage over every other tacky drinking establishment in the greater Los Angeles area. At the Rabbit Hole, Killian drank for free.

"The usual?" the bearded bartender asked, as Killian took his customary seat at the bar.

"Aye," he replied, looking up to see the man had already set about pouring out a measure of rum anyway.  _Maybe he was getting to be too predictable._

"Come across any femme fatales lately, Jones?" The man asked eagerly, plunking the glass down on the bar in front of him, a folded napkin beside it.

The bartender's name was August Booth. An aspiring screenwriter who thought PIs spent the majority of their time being seduced into insurance scams by the wayward daughters of millionaires, and thought a job tending bar might allow him to "better understand the human condition." He was wrong on both counts.

"You watch too many movies, Booth," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, before lifting the glass to his lips. The alcohol burned a pleasant path down his throat, and he felt some of the tension from his meeting with Gold slipping away.

With a tip of his glass in August's direction, he swiveled around in his seat to examine his fellow patrons. It was still early, but there were already a few occupied tables. Some of the regulars he recognized by sight, looking as though they'd wandered in around noon and fallen into despair sometime around three, eyes clouded over with inebriation and self-loathing as they sank back into their seats.

There were quite a few faces he didn't recognize, however. Couples, mainly. They hadn't managed to land a proper Valentine's Day reservation, most like, and had been lured there under the pretense of free entertainment and cheap cocktails. A choice they'd surely be regretting sooner rather than later. The place practically reeked of cheap desperation, and no matter how much the furnishings might resemble those of a cut-price honeymoon suite, it was hardly a venue conducive to romance.

The couple at the table nearest him seemed to be making the best of it. A first date, if Killian had to venture a guess, by the manufactured distance between them and the inane snatches of conversation he caught. Always a bad idea that, having a first date on Valentine's Day.

The man was suited, and Killian could already detect his fondness for cologne from ten paces. He was an athlete of some sort, or he certainly fancied himself one, Killian thought, with the crew cut and the way his jacket was deliberately two sizes too small, the bulge of his biceps accentuated and the shoulder seams near breaking point. He seemed to be dominating the discussion, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke.

The woman, a blonde far out of his league wrapped in a skin-tight pink dress, listened to her date with quiet interest. If the pungent aroma of his cologne bothered her, she didn't let it show, her smile open and agreeable. If it weren't for the impatient tap of her foot under the table, Killian might have even suspected she was enjoying herself.

But Los Angeles, well, it was full of all sorts of actresses.

Before he could think too much about staging an intervention, and rescuing the lass from yet more talk of this wanker's gym regime, the blonde let her facade of interest slip away, and leaned forwards to hiss something in her date's ear. When she pulled back they were, the both of them, utterly transformed.

The casual confidence had slid right off Too Much Cologne Guy's face, replaced with fear, creeping into anger. And the lass, who'd seemed so demure only moments ago? Demure was certainly no longer the word. She'd risen from the table at once, her features drawn into the most determined expression Killian had ever seen. And she'd drawn a pair of handcuffs from somewhere all of a sudden, though Killian had no idea how her outfit had managed to hide them.

Either Killian had found himself interrupting the opening chapters of a very sordid kind of love story, or this man was in for a world of trouble.

"You're… you're a bounty hunter!" Too Much Cologne Guy accused, his voice carrying as, he too, rose to his feet.

"Bond Recovery," the lass corrected, in an almost bored tone, the cuffs dangling from one finger. Almost unconsciously, Killian found himself sitting up straighter in his chair, quite taken with the sight. This woman, whoever she was, looked like just the kind of trouble he wanted to find himself in.

"So, what do you say?" she continued. "Want to come quietly?"

"Fuck you!" Too Much Cologne Guy shouted unimaginatively, sending his drink flying in her direction. She wasn't able to dodge most of it, looking down with exasperation as the stain rapidly colored the front of her dress.

Her quarry took advantage of her distraction to attempt his getaway, sending his chair tumbling in her direction as he beat a hasty path for the exit. And he might have made it, had Killian not blocked his way.

It hadn't been a conscious decision on his part, intervening. He'd been quite happy enjoying the spectacle, the same as everyone else. Or he'd certainly thought so. And yet, there he was, arms crossed over his chest, letting his body fill the doorway.

"Going somewhere, are we, mate?" he asked, not able to resist getting into the spirit of the thing.

Too Much Cologne Guy tried to backpedal at first, not expecting to be waylaid. But after a moment he paused, as if sizing Killian up. And by the looks of things, he found Killian wanting. Clearly he thought he'd rather risk a scuffle with him than the girl with the cuffs who was fast on his heels, because he lunged.

Though Killian had already suffered through an eavesdropped description of the man's gym regime, he had to confess he hadn't been prepared for all 250 pounds of the man to launch themselves full-bodily in his direction.

The two of them burst through the double doors with a crash, Killian landing hard enough on the wet concrete outside to knock the wind out of him. Or maybe it was just the large man who'd landed on top of him. If things weren't bad enough, he could already feel the water from the puddle they'd landed in creeping inside his coat and soaking through his shirt.

His main obstacle cleared, Too Much Cologne Guy pushed himself up onto his feet to make a run for it, but Killian grabbed a hold of his ankle before he got too far, yanking him backwards. He fell onto the wet pavement in front of him like a sack of potatoes, just in time for the blonde to catch up with them.

She paused only a moment to take in the two of them lying prone on the concrete, before she ran forward and dropped her knee into the middle of the man's back as he was trying to pick himself back up. He fell back down immediately, and if his sharp groan was any indication, she'd really put all her weight into it.

In a matter of moments she had the man cuffed, pulling him up onto his knees with a surprising amount of strength.

"Will you make this easier on both of us?" She asked him, a little out of breath. "The cuffs are on, and they are staying on. I'd rather not chase you down Sunset in the rain, but I will if I have to." She gave a little tug on the cuffs, to emphasize her point.

"Fuck you, you little whore," he replied predictably, attempting to twist out of her grip.

She just shrugged, pulling a small black canister from somewhere that Killian would not have assumed her tight dress would have hidden. "Okay then," she said in a cheerful sing-song. "Just remember,  _you're_ the one who wanted things the hard way." And then she grabbed the man by the hair, pulled his head back, and sprayed the canister's contents directly into his eyes.

Pepper spray, was Killian's guess by the man's agonizing screams. A theory which solidified as his whole face seemed to melt into red blotches, his eyes transforming into narrow slits, and his nose streaming. He didn't put up too much of a fight after that, unless you counted the sobbing.

* * *

It was only once Too Much Cologne Guy had been safely secured inside her vehicle, the ancient yellow Volkswagen Killian had noticed earlier, that the lass seemed to pay Killian much mind, as he slowly got back to his feet with a groan.

"You okay?" She asked, looking over at him a little warily.

"Aye. I'm grand," he laughed unfunnily, a sharp pain in his side radiating out whenever he moved. A hand clutched to the site of the injury, he began a pained shuffle back towards the bar. The lass seemed unconvinced by his false bravado, but nor was she rushing to thank him for his ill-conceived attempt at being a good samaritan. However, before he could get two steps, he stumbled a little and the blonde was instantly beside him, throwing one of his arms around her shoulders to take some of his weight.

"Here," she said, drawing her other arm around his torso. "Lean into me."

He didn't have the heart to tell her it hurt the same either way. Not with the way she was pressed against him, warm through the fabric of her barely-there dress. Nor with the way the sweet citrus scent of her perfume enveloped him as readily as her bare arms had. No, he thought he might just keep his mouth shut. Just this once.

When they got inside the lass hailed August over, and between the two of them they got Killian settled down onto some terrible velour loveseat in the corner, where he sat reclined like a figure in a Henri Rousseau painting. August immediately left in search of ice and a first aid kit, leaving him and the blonde alone.

"Take your shirt off," she ordered without preamble.

Killian glanced up at her with interest. "You do work fast, don't you, love?"

"Oh, spare me the bedroom eyes," she said with a roll of her eyes heavenward. "I'm not interested. But you probably cracked a rib or two, and I know it hurts like a bitch. So?" she challenged, one hand landing on her hip. "Shirt. Off."

After a few more moments of holding her gaze, he ceded her wishes. Or at least, he tried to. He had little trouble unbuttoning his shirt, but a little more difficulty when it came time to slide his jacket and shirt off his shoulders, unable to twist his torso in any direction without a sharp flash of pain.

"A little assistance?" he asked sweetly.

He saw hesitation in her eyes, but after a few more moments of his pathetic struggling she took pity on him and stepped forward, helping to peel his jacket and button down from his shoulders despite the awkwardness of the angle. His sodden shirt removed, Killian found himself folding his arms together to combat the sudden chill of the room on his bare skin.

"You know, that was a pretty dumb move," she said, stepping away again with his wet clothes folded in her hands, her eyes averted to a poster on the wall. If he were a student of human behavior, he might suppose she was trying a little too hard to avoid the sight of his bare chest. "That guy?" she indicated, jerking her thumb in the direction of the door they'd just entered. "He used to be a linebacker with the San Diego Chargers."

"Of course he was," Killian muttered, as he tried to sit up. The sharp pain in his side made him wince, and convinced him to give it a moment before trying it again. Definitely a cracked rib, then.

"And I already put a boot on his car," she continued, placing his clothes down on a stool nearby. "He wasn't going anywhere in a hurry."

"Do you do this a lot?" he wheezed, as he finally managed to sit up fully.

"What? Play nursemaid to interfering Brits?" she asked with a raised brow, momentarily forgetting herself long enough to let her gaze drift back into his direction.

"Lure men double your size... into a pair of handcuffs using a combination of... cleavage and cleverly concealed pepper spray?" he finished with a sardonic smile.

She shrugged, seeming almost flattered by his description. "It pays the bills."

"And how exactly... does a lass like you decide to go into that profession?"

He didn't miss the shadow that crossed her face at his question. Just like he didn't miss that he'd clearly crossed a line, by attempting to pry. Her stance had been wary before, but now her gaze on him was as cool as an Antarctic breeze.

He'd seen a lot of women with eyes like that since he'd come to LA. The city was practically fit to bursting with them. Beautiful. Fragile. Inexorably damaged. Little wonder so many felt themselves drawn to the idea of a career on the silver screen, and to this smoggy ruin by the sea. In Hollywood, the business of being someone else wasn't just an idle fantasy, it was the chief fucking export.

This sleazy city may have been gripped by big talk and empty promises, but it still acted as a beacon of sorts, attracting lost boys and girls to its sunlit shores like moths to a flame. Killian understood. He'd been the same once, drawn as far West as he could manage, keeping a physical distance between himself and the memories.

This lass, she looked like she might know a thing or two about running.

Fortunately, he was saved making a further fool of himself by the timely return of August, bearing bandages and crushed ice gathered up in a bar towel. Unfortunately, it fell to her to administer the ice to his bruised side, and she was none too gentle about it.

"Easy, lass," he said, flinching at the combined sensations of cold and pressure to his injury.

She eased off a little, but didn't seem all that contrite. He could certainly tell why she'd hadn't fallen into the nursing profession instead.

"Shouldn't you be escorting your... errant linebacker back to the proper authorities?" Killian asked, curious.

She shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "In a minute. He's cuffed to a bolt in the floor, and crying. He's not going anywhere."

Killian wasn't so sure about that. He was willing to bet that Volkswagen had accumulated a fair amount of rust over the years. For a large man with the proper kind of motivation, it wouldn't take much. Assuming he paused in his weeping long enough to realise that, of course.

When next she lifted the cold compress off, he caught his first glimpse of the bruise forming under his skin; red, angry and already on its way to purple. The blonde frowned at the sight of it, and he couldn't help but notice that her bedside manner improved a little after that, altogether less jabbing and ordering about. That is, until August held up an ace bandage.

"You sure you know... what to do with that, mate?" Killian asked, a little warily.

"That depends," the bartender mused. "How much stock do you put in WebMD?"

Killian tried to dodge painfully away from him, but the lass was upon him in an instant, taking hold of his shoulders to keep him steady. "Don't," she warned, her voice as taut as the pressure of her fingertips dug into his shoulder. He stopped his squirming at once. And then to August, "Don't bind him. He's already having enough trouble breathing. Just tie it firm enough to keep the ice to his side, okay?"

Killian wasn't sure when exactly this woman had become the foremost authority on rib injuries in the room, but neither of them argued with her. Killian uncrossed his arms and let the man commence securing his compress to his side with the bandage.

The blonde had taken a seat on the loveseat beside him in order to hold the ice steadily to his side as August worked, and he wondered if it was worth trying to win back her regard. He wondered why he wanted to.

"How do you know... I'm having trouble breathing?" he asked, even as each breath was accompanied by a tiny stab of pain.

"You mean apart from the fact you can't make it through a complete sentence?" She asked quizzically. "Every time you breathe in you flinch."

And here he thought he was doing a rather good job of putting a brave face on it. Perhaps not.

"I know it hurts to take deep breaths," she said, relaxing her grip on his shoulders. "But you should. The same with the coughing. It stops the lungs getting infected."

He twisted his face around to consider the lass, a sudden wellspring of useful medical advice. He took in her tiny dress, still stained with August's signature cocktail. He took in the small shiny patch of skin visible between her breasts, hinting at a previous altercation. The scrape on her knee where it had met the cement outside, caked with dried blood. "Some experience... in the matter, love?"

She didn't say anything in reply, but her eyes traveled up to meet his. A lovely green, they were. As green as the storm-tossed waters of the North Atlantic, and just as turbulent. Oh yes, she had some experience in the matter.

"I'm Killian Jones," he said suddenly, brandishing his right hand towards her with little to no forethought. She eyed his hand, and then both of her own still resting atop his shoulders, and if he wasn't mistaken, colored a little.

He was about to withdraw his stupid offer when, after a moment's awkward reshuffling she extracted her hands from his shoulders, leaned back a little, and held her right hand forward to fold into his own.

"Emma," she replied at last, her handshake firm.

 _Emma_. A soft, delicate kind of name. It made him think of a lass he'd once known at school, all rosy-cheeks and soft tawny hair held back by a pink elastic hair band. It didn't seem to entirely match the creature before him, with her strong grip and complicated eyes. Certainly not the determined set of her mouth and her get-back stare from earlier. And yet, he thought, gaze settling on the slight blush that had overtaken her cheeks, perhaps there was a glimmer of something there under the surface. Something soft underneath all those hard edges.

If this had been any other time, he might have chanced placing a kiss upon that hand, icy or no. It was the kind of move which might come off as creepy coming from an American, but paired with his natural accent was usually mistaken for dashing. Killian couldn't deny he'd used that move a time or two, with the intent of leaving a lingering impression. And for whatever reason, with the sudden appearance of this Emma and her shiny handcuffs in his life, he did find himself wanting to leave an impression.

And yet, with August sat on his other side, and her in the middle of directing first aid, it hardly seem like the right moment. Especially not with the way August was watching their interaction with interest, his task apparently forgotten.

A little reluctantly Killian broke the connection, his attention turning to his would-be physician. "Booth?" he prompted. Chastened at being caught gawking, the bartender ducked his head and returned to fiddling with the bandage. The lass,  _Emma_ , gave a little cough and rose from her seat. But instead of leaving, as Killian supposed she would, she instead went to stand on August's other side, monitoring his progress.

It might have been a rejection, but it didn't feel like it. Though he couldn't help but notice she hadn't volunteered her own last name.  _Smart lass_. Not that it posed an insurmountable obstacle, if Killian were motivated enough. After all, he had a contact at the DMV, and her Massachusetts plates had stood out. He'd have been remiss if he  _hadn't_  memorized her license plate number. But in an age of social media overshares and self-aggrandizement, he found her caution endearing.

"You aren't concerned... he might sue you for the state of his face?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the strange sensation of August near embracing him in order to get the bandage all the way around his torso. "Your Gridiron fellow?" he prompted. "He seemed like he might be... the litigious type."

" _Him?_ " She seemed almost amused by the idea. "Nah. Then he'd have to admit a girl got the drop on him. Trust me, it'll be a frosty day in hell before that ever happens. Besides, it's reasonable force. He was resisting. You saw."

 _He felt_ , as August tugged a little too hard on his bandage. "Sorry," the bartender mouthed, fingers fumbling with the final knot.

And then Killian had a thought. A thought borne from the image of this Emma's knee in Too Much Cologne Guy's back on a loop in his brain, and the stabbing pain radiating in his chest with every breath he took.

"So what's your success rate, then?" he asked with more than a little professional curiosity. "At finding people... who don't want to be found?"

"Why?" she asked sardonically, cocking her head to the side so that the blue neon behind her shined into his eyes. "Got somebody you need found?"

"And if I did?" he asked, squinting a little in her direction.

Emma didn't respond immediately, waiting for August to step back and admire his handiwork, and then leave to go serve the next lot of unsuspecting customers who'd come in seeking shelter from the weather.

"If this is just a roundabout way of asking for my number..." she said, rounding on him. "I don't date clients."

"That's a pity," responded Killian honestly. "And yet…" He looked down at his recently secured bandage, the sad excuse for an ice pack already melting into the fabric. "In light of recent events... I suppose that's a sacrifice I'll have to make."

She harrumphed at his presumption, hands landing on her hips. "Okay, so what's the job?"

"It's a missing person's case. Very discreet. Very lucrative. Very time-sensitive. Any interest?"

"You're a PI?" she asked, open surprise on her face. As if she hadn't believed his line of enquiry was entirely genuine up until that point.

"Aye. Licensed and everything. Would you like to see some credentials?" With no small amount of effort he tugged his wallet out of his pocket, and held it open for her inspection. To her credit, she didn't merely glance at it, instead giving it a thorough once-over.

"Seems legit," she conceded, rocking back on her heels.

"Indeed."

"Look," she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I catch scumbags who don't make their court appearances, and I'm pretty good at it. The criminal classes don't really boast a lot of deep thinkers. Most people are stupid and they make the same mistakes over and over. Case in point, Mr All-American out there. He's out on bail on tax evasion charges, but instead of fronting court and owning up to his mistakes, he decided to head up to LA and go on a date with a leggy blonde he met on Tinder."

Killian gave a snort of derision.

"And did I mention he's married? With kids?" She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, as I said, most petty criminals aren't hard. But I feel I should warn you I have less luck with ordinary people. They're harder to predict when they don't have the law breathing down their necks. Less desperate. Desperate people make mistakes. Not everyone else does."

She frowned as she finished this confession, as if still troubled by those "ordinary people" never located. And if he was being honest, Killian grew ever more curious about this mysterious Emma, of no last name. After all, something had spurred that sudden bout of honesty, and if Killian had to guess, that thing was regret.

He knew a little about that, too.

"Well then," said Killian, letting her warning sink in. "I suppose it's for the best that my quarry isn't exactly the ordinary sort. Tell me, _Emma_ , have you ever filled out a non-disclosure agreement before?"

* * *

It was near midnight by the time he staggered from the ER. Four wretched hours sat in the waiting room with the worst of humanity in all their bleeding, coughing glory, all so that the doctor could helpfully repeat the advice August had already relayed via WebMD.

_Ice. Rest. Let it heal naturally._

As if anyone with an unhappy landlord and an impractical car to run, could possibly afford to sit about idly for a few weeks. Not to mention his little assignment for Mr Gold. The golden ticket out of his downward spiral.

How fortuitous that this oh-so-helpful advice had come in a package deal with a prescription to some very decent painkillers. He bit off half a pill in the parking lot, and swallowed it down with a half empty can of 7Up he'd procured from the waiting room vending machine. Enough to take the edge off, but not enough to find himself careening into the path of oncoming traffic on wet roads.

He had 82 hours to find Peter Pan and return him to his management. He couldn't do that from between the the grille of a Mack truck.

* * *

Home was an apartment by the ocean. Not right on the ocean, mind, because Killian had not suddenly become an overnight lottery winner. It was a few blocks back from the beach, the partial view from his balcony mostly obscured by an unfortunately placed palm tree, viciously protected by City ordinances.

What the stubborn palm couldn't block, however, was the inimitable scent of the Pacific at night. It was the one thing he couldn't give up. Every evening Killian propped his bedroom window open and let it soak into his sheets as he slept, leaving his dreams off in happier times.

Even on a stormy night such as this, with lightning flashing furiously in the sky and every tree on the block lurching to and fro like a drunkard, he couldn't resist the lure of an open window. The air was crisper somehow, the scent of the rain dampening the usual brine of the ocean. But it seemed to reach inside his lungs all the same, and draw from him his first deep breath since his rib had met with the former linebacker.

The apartment itself wasn't much to speak of, a cramped studio with barely enough space for Killian's sofa bed between the jumble of books and records he always meant to get around to organizing. Somehow, what with the day drinking and falling into financial ruin, he'd never quite found the time.

He didn't bother to fix his sofa into its usual night-time position, instead pulling a long forgotten bag of peas from his ice box and taking the rest of his pain pill. Propping himself up on the sofa with his laptop balanced on his knees and the frozen peas pressed to his side, he let them work their healing magic.

But instead of typing Peter Pan's name into the search window as planned, he typed a different name instead.

_Emma Swan._

The lass from the bar. It had been a little hard for her to keep her surname under wraps while one of Mr Gold's lackeys had handled the paperwork. And he had every intention of learning a thing or two about Emma Swan. It wasn't as if he was going to get much sleep that night anyway, between the agony and the cold compress.

There was still plenty of time left to comb through Peter Pan's social media accounts, one insipid tweet at a time.


	3. Boys With No Mothers

In which Killian meets Peter's backing band, and weeps for the youth of today.

"They say the rich can always protect themselves and that in their world it is always summer. I've lived with them and they are bored and lonely people."

\- The Long Goodbye

When Killian woke at 7am to the unwelcome trill of his phone, it was to the uncomfortable realization that the day before had not, in fact, been a bizarre dream. Except for the part with the iguana. He was reasonably sure he had dreamt that part.

He'd finally fallen asleep sitting upright on his sofa, in the middle of marathoning episodes of Peter Pan's reality show on Netflix. And as was the nature of the beast, it was still playing at low volume as he staggered over to the counter where he'd carelessly left his phone the night before, cursing the entire time.

"Jones & Jones Investigations," he answered, none of his usual civility coloring his tone, hand clutched painfully to his side.

"Hi, am I speaking with Killian Jones?" He didn't recognize the chipper voice on the other end, nor could he immediately pin down the accent of the woman speaking. Australian, maybe. Perhaps from New Zealand. He could rarely tell the difference, most days.

"Aye?" he agreed, a little warily.

"Great! This is Belle French, I'm calling from Mr. Gold's office. We've made arrangements for you to interview Peter's backing band this morning, per your request. They're already at the house, laying down some vocal tracks. Would 8am suit?"

With some effort, Killian attempted to recall making such a request. He thought he half-remembered sending a text sometime after 4am. Things had gotten a little hazy after the Halloween episode.

Killian glanced at the rain sodden landscape outside his window, the petrol fumes of frustrated commuters already having erased all other scents of the morning. Rush hour. Fantastic. He wanted nothing so much as to take a handful of pain pills and sleep for a week. With any luck he wouldn't wake up.

"Best make it 9, lass," he said at last. "What's the address?"

Peter Pan's compound lay in Trousdale, a sprawling minimalist palace embroiled in a love affair with the right angle. It wasn't to Killian's taste, he thought, as he sat in his car idling at the gate. Too far from the ocean. But the view was certainly worth killing over, or would be, on any other day. If the rain ever let up, one would presumably be able to see the entire city laid out below like a miniature train set. Killian mentally filed that point away, resolving to check up on the neighbors.

The woman he'd talked to on the phone earlier, Belle, stood waiting to greet him just inside the gate with an umbrella. Definitely Australian, he decided, as he shook hands with the smartly dressed young brunette in impossibly tall stilettos. That she was able to navigate the gravel drive with such ease frankly mystified him.

"We've assembled them all in the media room," she said conversationally, as they took the last few steps up to the front door. "Though I'm not sure how much help they will be, truthfully. They're not exactly… Well, you'll see what I mean," she said cryptically. "Would you like to see them separately, or all together?"

"That depends, do they know why I'm here?" Killian asked.

She eyed him quizzically, as if trying to follow his thinking. "No… All they know is someone has come to interview them about Saturday night."

"So they don't know their lead singer is missing?"

"Ro- Mr. Gold fed them some cock and bull story about Peter going on some spiritual retreat in Ojai this week." Her eyes widened at her near slip, and so did Killian's.

What had she been going to say? Robert? Ronan? Roland? Romulus? He wasn't sure, though one thing was for damn certain. No matter how she presented herself, Ms. French was no mere assistant.

"It's the same line he fed to Perez Hilton," Belle continued quickly, pretending as if nothing had happened. "Sometimes lazy reporting really works in our favor."

"Hmmm," Killian hummed in a agreement, considering the lass in a whole new light. A woman who attracted the attention of a man like Mr. Gold? Certainly not someone to be underestimated. Well, suffice to say he wouldn't be letting Ms. French lead him down any dark alleys anytime soon.

Artificially lit hallways however… well, he'd just have to keep his wits about him. Easier said than done with half a Vicodin dissolving in his gut, but it certainly helped to transform his pained zombie shuffle upon waking into something almost approaching a regular gait.

"So as far as they are aware, nothing at all is wrong?" he clarified again.

"Nothing at all," Belle replied. "Except that there's a strange man here to interview them."

"Well then, lass," said Killian, considering his next steps. "Would you be open to a little subterfuge?"

According to Mr. Gold, the last trace anyone had seen of Peter Pan had been Saturday night, during a particularly festive early Valentine's themed party at Chez Pan.

It was an event well-documented across social media, with far too many intoxicated people carrying bows and arrows to be entirely incident free. Paramedics had been called at 11pm to cart away one reveler with an arrow sticking out of his leg, and yet the festivities hadn't ended there. The evening would not have been complete without the boy wonder himself posting a selfie with a random iguana at around 3am, with the following tweet.

peter_pan: all iguana do is have some fun

Reptile puns aside, it didn't exactly make for particularly evocative last words.

Sometime around dawn the party had broken up, and neither social media nor the security cameras posted outside has seen hide nor hair of the young star since. Tracking the GPS on his phone had proven equally fruitless, as it appeared to have stopped transmitting sometime early Sunday morning, presumed broken.

Kidnap might have been a possibility, what with all manner of strange people coming and going from the house on the night in question. But no ransom demands had been received, and Mr Gold did not seem to favor that theory.

It stood to reason that if anyone had noticed Peter Pan's disappearance from the party, it would be the ragtag group of young things he had catapulted to fame in his wake.

If Killian thought that 9am might be a tad early for the Los Angeles party set, he immediately cursed his ignorance on clapping eyes on his first youngster, sat playing X-Box on the nearest couch. This one wore a Lakers jersey and enough bling strung around his neck to open his own diamond exchange, his manner curiously perky for the hour. But as Killian glanced from this boy to the rest of his contemporaries strewn throughout the room, he suddenly understood what Belle had meant about them.

There were five Lost Boys in Peter Pan's backing band, and after an evening embroiled in their reality television exploits, Killian recognized the faces well enough. They each had a public persona, and a nickname to match it, carefully hatched by their public relations team to appeal to a certain demographic.

The curly haired teen playing Halo was imaginatively titled Curly. He was the youngest of the lot, barely scraping seventeen. He'd been some kind of child piano prodigy, but had long since given up classical compositions for keyboard duties with The Lost Boys.

Then there was Nibs, the lothario. He was followed most places he went by a bevvy of young female fans, and already the subject of at least three paternity suits. In his limited free time where he wasn't fiddling with his hair or seducing groupies, he played rhythm guitar in the band.

Now Slightly was the most precocious and talented of the lot. As the name would suggest, he was a skinny lad, a few years older than the others, who wrote most of the lyrics to Peter Pan's hit songs, and played lead guitar. Had his singing voice been up to snuff he might have been the star of the show, but as it was, he'd settled for playing the role of the soulful elder statesman of the group.

Tootles was easy to pick out, with his blue hair and neon green t-shirt. He'd been cast as the fool in this little charade, and he played his role well. He had a long list of misdemeanors to his name, and took over the band's official Instagram account on a semi-regular basis to post "candid" shots of the band in potentially embarrassing scenarios. Naturally enough, he was the drummer.

Which left just Felix, the bassist. A dour-faced blonde who looked like he'd never lived a pleasant day in all his life. Rumor had it he and Peter had been childhood friends before Peter's meteoric rise to fame. Something had kept the boys close despite the upheavals, and now Felix and his infamous scowl were plastered over teenage bedrooms the world over, the perfect poster boy for teenage angst.

A motley crew they made at the best of times, and this was certainly not that. For when Killian stepped further into the room, he saw the fatal flaw in his plan to interrogate them.

Instead of the dozy teenagers one might expect before noon, all stifled yawns and vacant nods, these lads were wide awake. There were effervescent smiles and glassy eyes all round, sleep but a distant memory.

They were all of them wired to the gills. If Killian had to guess, they'd all gone a little overboard on the pixie dust on Valentine's night, and his hopes of getting anything too useful out of them were diminishing before his eyes.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he began, clapping his hands together in front of him. "Nice of you to take the time to meet with me, so bright and early."

With the way rain splattered the picture window, obscuring those million dollar views, perhaps bright hadn't been the ideal descriptor. Nevertheless, he seemed to have captured their attention.

'You a journalist?" one of them asked. Killian didn't miss the way Nibs straightened in his seat at the suggestion, hands immediately coming up to tend to his tangled waves of dark hair.

"I thought there weren't any more interviews until Friday?" Felix asked, eyes full of accusation as he regarded Belle.

"Actually," Killian interjected, "I'm not a reporter. But there may be some call for interviews, unfortunately. See, I'm a private detective. It seems something of value went missing during last Saturday's festivities, and Mr Pan's management has hired me to investigate."

Technically speaking, this was not a lie. Only that missing something was, in fact, a missing someone. All things considered, it was probably for the best that the young men with the blatant impulse control issues weren't handed Hollywood's best kept secret on a silver platter.

There was a sudden rush of whispered conversation as the boys absorbed this news.

"What did they get?" piped up Slightly from the back. "I swear to god, if one of those fuckers have laid a finger on my rigs-"

"I'm not at liberty to say what has been taken," Killian answered smoothly. "But all the same I'd like to speak to each of you in turn, and gain your impressions of the night in question."

He saw Curly and Nibs exchange doubtful glances, as if recounting anything beyond the last few hours might be a tall order.

"Hey, hey, guys!" said Tootles suddenly, a realization dawning. "Wasn't that the night I shot that guy with that arrow?"

The rest of them dissolved into laughter, and Killian glanced back at Belle to see that I told you so look written all over her face, her arms folded.

"Aye," he agreed quietly with a weary sigh. "No need to say it. All the same, I'll be needing somewhere to put them. Any ideas?"

There were, it transpired, no shortage of available rooms from whence to conduct his interviews. Belle had given him very precise directions to the formal lounge, but once he was out of her sight, Killian naturally chose to follow his own nose and promptly lost himself in a labyrinth of sparsely furnished rooms.

He'd been in his fair share of overpriced celebrity palaces, but there was no denying Peter Pan's abode held a certain je ne sais quoi. It stood as a monument to the desires of teenage boys everywhere, with more than a hint of unsupervised frat boy about the place.

Empty pizza boxes and the odor of wet socks reigned supreme, and if the Lost Boys didn't bunk down at Chez Pan full-time, they certainly seemed to spend a lot of time there. Each bedroom Killian passed seemed occupied, nightstands and dressers cluttered with personal odds and ends, clothes strewn across designer timber floors.

It might have been his dream home when he was 19, Killian thought. All the pizza, porn and pin-ball a young man could ever want or need. But as a grown adult, the unkempt nature of the rooms reminded him of something else entirely. It reminded him of boys with no mothers, left to their own devices. A sinkful of dirty dishes and no one left to pay the heating bill.

He blinked the memory away as soon as it arrived, taking the last few steps into the sunken lounge.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised that the formal lounge contained a koi pond at its center. It certainly seemed like the kind of affectation a young man at the top of Forbes's list of ten wealthiest celebrities might appreciate.

If the fish were distressed after the previous weekend's revelry, they didn't seem to show it. In fact, they seemed to be downright thriving, grown fat and content in captivity, and near as long as Killian's arm. They swam close to the surface, large shapes of orange and white disappearing under the pads of water lilies.

But it wasn't a fish which had caught the reflection of an overhead light, and had Killian kneeling before the pond, squinting into the murky water.

It looked like a device, he thought. Black and rectangular, too small for a filter or some other such pond equipment. His curiosity piqued, and casting his eyes about for witnesses, Killian removed his jacket and rolled his shirt sleeve as far up his arm as it would go. Then, putting out of his mind the YouTube video he'd seen once of a koi swallowing a live duckling whole, he plunged his hand into the water after the device.

The pool proved deeper than he'd imagined, and the object slipped from his grasp, sinking further into the muck. With a muttered curse he leaned in further, his sleeve soaking through to the shoulder. Finally his fingers found purchase and he managed to lift the object from its watery resting place.

He turned it over in his hands, glass and aluminum slippery against fingers. A phone. Not everyone's first choice of pond accessory, but then, these millionaires were a strange lot. It came as little surprise when the screen stayed resolutely dead no matter what he tried. Waterproof it was not. He rubbed it against the fabric of his jeans to dry it out a little, and then on a whim, he stuffed it into his pocket.

Chances were it simply belonged to some socialite at the party who had dropped it mid-selfie attempt after one too many mimosas. They'd probably figured that retrieving it wasn't worth the hassle. Perhaps they'd seen the same YouTube video Killian had, with the ill-fated duckling. Perhaps they thought it wasn't worth taking the risk.

No matter. Killian was probably grasping at straws, hoping it might be of any use, but he was prepared to live with that. Grasping at straws was his bread and butter.

There came a sound from the hall just as he was replacing his jacket, but it was merely Belle with his first Lost Boy in tow, Curly. He straightened the jacket, ensuring there was no visible sign of his damp sleeve, and then motioned for the boy to take a seat.

The interviews were not everything Killian might have hoped for, and his expectations hadn't been especially high going in. Curly had been passed out drunk for most of the evening in question, so far as he could tell. Tootles didn't remember much of anything beyond the arrow incident, and didn't seem particularly interested in Killian's questions, pulling his phone out at one point to scroll through his Twitter feed.

Nibs was similarly unhelpful, recounting in detail an alcohol-fueled bathroom tryst with a Victoria's Secret model, but woefully lacking when it came to the whereabouts of his front man. Slightly was still fixated on the alleged theft, questioning Killian extensively over the safety of all his most highly prized instruments and gear.

And Felix? Well, he was just as recalcitrant and monosyllabic as his public persona suggested. Killian could barely get the lad to even admit that a party had ever taken place. It was tedious work, and complicated by his need to dance around his true motives.

In the end, it was Slightly who provided the crucial clue.

"Peter?" he asked, finally answering Killian's query after taking stock of what seemed like his entire inventory of musical miscellany. "Sure, he was with Tink, I guess."

"Tink?" Killian prompted.

"Tinker Bell?"

Ah. Perhaps Killian deserved the scornful look young Slightly had shot him. Killian might still be two seasons behind on Peter Pan's reality show, but even he recognized the name Tinker Bell.

A former child star, turned "dramatic actress", Tinker Bell was Peter Pan's equal in many ways. She too had faced mounting pressure to shed her squeaky clean image, and had thrown herself into a series of bloated action films where she'd been cast as the sexpot love interest. Seemingly overnight, she had switched pink sweater sets for skin-tight black latex, Teen People for Playboy.

And, it was rumored, developed a habit of chasing the dragon on the side. Perhaps she and Peter Pan were fated.

"With Tink?" Killian repeated. "You're sure?"

The guitarist shrugged. "Yeah, I mean he wasn't too pleased to see her. She's supposed to be at that place, you know, what is it called? Wishes? Hopes? Something like that."

"Promises?" Killian suggested.

"Yeah," Slightly agreed. "That one. He wasn't too happy that she'd busted out. Could fuck up her whole career. His too. He's still got a lot of kids looking up to him, you know?"

So, Tinker Bell's drug habit wasn't strictly hearsay after all. Interesting.

"Was there a fight?" Killian prompted. "Some diversion or other?"

Slightly shook his head. "Nah, it was cool. He got her out of there real fast. Took her back to her place."

That was entirely new information.

"Her place?"

"Yeah. It's in Malibu or the Palisades or some shit."

Killian cut the rest of the interview short as soon as wouldn't be considered suspicious, and tracked down Belle for access to the security feed from the front gate.

Mr Gold's goons had already gone through the footage and come up with nothing. But they hadn't been expecting Peter Pan to be leaving the premises in Tinker Bell's signature green Mini Cooper, its windows tinted dark to deter prying eyes.

The Mini Cooper, and presumably Peter Pan had left the premises at 4:42am, according to the time stamp. They hadn't returned.

Killian was halfway back to Hollywood before he realized he'd picked up a tail. A nondescript blue sedan one car back with a busted headlight. He couldn't make out the driver through his rain splattered back window, just a dark silhouette.

He made a sudden right hand turn by an In-N-Out Burger, and watched as the car dutifully followed. Just to be sure, he doubled back out onto the main boulevard. The car performed an admirable three point turn in the parking lot, and followed suit.

At this point, most professionals would realize they had been made and give it up, switch tactics. Not so this guy, dutifully remaining one car behind through the next three intersections. Which meant he was either a complete moron, or he had no real interest in remaining inconspicuous.

Killian was curious as to which it was.

He took another right hand turn, this time turning immediately into a small parking lot behind a tattoo parlor, and cutting the engine. Taking a few moments to scour his backseat for a suitable instrument, he jumped out and pressed himself against the dark brick exterior of the store. The blue sedan wasn't far behind, driver sat forward in his seat, craning his neck to see where the Firebird had gone as he became level with the building.

This was the moment Killian struck, tire iron smashing through the driver's side window with surprising ease. It had the desired effect. The man in the car panicked, and the car stalled. Reaching through the hole in the window to unlock the door, Killian wrenched it open and pulled the guy from his seat. He hadn't even been wearing a seatbelt, and in his shock, he came easy.

Up close, Killian got his first real look at his new stalker. He was older than Killian might have supposed, his close cropped hair streaked with grey. He wore a cheap grey suit and glasses, which only served to magnify the fear of god flaring in his eyes. It wasn't until he was shoved up against the brick wall, Killian's hand trapping him by his gaudy paisley tie, that a little indignation set in.

"Hey!" he cried, righting his glasses with a trembling hand. "You can't do that!" Whether he'd meant the damage to the car, or the man-handling, or both, Killian couldn't say.

Now that he'd glimpsed the tools of the man's trade sitting idle on his passenger seat in plain view, Killian knew for certain the kind of creature he was dealing with. Not a fellow investigator at all, nor one of Mr Gold's hired goons. Something much, much worse.

"Are you certain about that?" Killian snarled, grip tightening around the man's tie. He took a certain amount of dark satisfaction from the man's answering whimper.

There was never a creature so loathsome as that of the paparazzi photographer.

"I didn't…. I didn't break any laws," the man managed, the defiant tilt to his chin somewhat off-set by the tremble in his voice.

"No?" Killian remarked, pulling the man to his feet by the lapels of his jacket. "Well, you were stupid enough to follow an armed man down a blind alley. Do you know who I am? What I do?"

"K...Killian Jones. You're… you're a PI."

"Very good," said Killian with a menacing smile. "And who might you be?"

"Sidney… Sidney Glass," he spluttered, doing poor job of wiping the rain off his spectacles with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Well now, Sidney Glass. Would you like to tell me why you and your overpriced camera have decided to antagonize me, today of all days?"

"Ppp…." His courage seemed to abandon him as Killian made a show of examining the tire iron still clutched in his left hand.

"Yes?" Killian prompted, less than helpfully.

"Peter Pan isn't in Ojai. I was… I was watching the house. Saw you enter the gates. No sign of Peter in four days. A private detective called in. Something's up."

His car really was too ostentatious for its own good.

"And you figured that was your business?" Killian asked, shaking his head a little. "Trust me, mate. Missing home furnishings are hardly in the public interest."

"Home furnishings?" Sidney asked, his curiosity momentarily overcoming his fear.

"Oi!" shouted Killian, bringing the man back to his grim predicament. "Do you like having a busted window? Would you like another? Or maybe it's your camera I should be after next. I don't think you'll be doing much peeping from shrubberies without it."

Aye, Killian was a hypocrite. He'd spent more than enough time in shrubberies of his own, waiting on that elusive money shot. It was not impossible that his aversion to the paparazzi was steeped in self-loathing.

At the mention of his beloved camera, Glass physically blanched, as if Killian had suggested cutting off a finger or two. "Noooo, noooo, don't do that. Please, I'll do anything. I'll-"

"Well then," Killian said, shoving the man in the direction of his car before the scene got too desperate. "You'd best be reconsidering your interest in me, mate. Me and my client."

Ye… yes. Sure," said the man as he scrabbled for the door. "You won't see me again." And to accompany that promise, he dove into the driver's seat, turned the engine over, and reversed back onto the main road in a frenzy of blaring horns and squealing tires.


	4. Safety in Numbness

**In which Killian finds himself in close proximity to rather a lot of opiates, and those who depend on them.**

_"It was a smooth silvery voice that matched her hair. It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll's house. I thought that was silly as soon as I thought of it."_

_― The Big Sleep_

Once safely returned to the confines of his glorified janitor's closet, Killian dithered in front of his computer, mulling over his encounter with Sidney Glass.

Aye, paparazzos were hardly considered the most courageous bunch. Glass had certainly folded easily enough when confronted with a tire iron. And yet, Killian couldn't shake the feeling that something about the encounter had seemed a little…  _off._

Glass had been too obvious, too bumbling, too willing to share. Too much the amateur. But that was the thing about Los Angeles, it was full of all kinds of actors.

He typed Sidney's name into the relevant search engine, and leaned back into his chair as the results page loaded. As the relevant pages spawned into the thousands, Killian gave a low whistle through his teeth. Sidney Glass was a popular man.

The first result was a news item, dated some three months back. There had been a court appearance. The defendant, Sidney Glass, 43, of West Adams, had been sued for harassment of a well-known fashion model. They had settled out of court for a tidy sum.

The next was some eight months previously. A sitcom actor had taken out a restraining order against Glass, saying his tactics were tantamount to stalking. The judge hadn't agreed, but had strongly cautioned Glass to keep his distance if he wished to keep on the right side of the law.

There were more where that came from, as Killian scrawled further down the page. Dozens of altercations with the rich and the famous, some that reached the courts, and some not. All reported with glee in the tabloid press.

All which gave Killian the impression that Sidney Glass was perhaps more tenacious than he'd originally seemed. This, after all, was a man who'd apparently invited himself along to the secluded Mauritius honeymoon of a newlywed European Prince, and sold the resultant photos for a cool million dollars. That took a certain kind of brazenness.

All the evidence pointed to the conclusion that Killian had not heard the last of Sidney Glass. And if he was any judge of character, he might expect a lawsuit of his very own soon, for the broken window and the manhandling. That sounded like something Mr Gold's phalanx of ridiculously well-paid lawyers could take care of.

Killian didn't have time for all that. He was after a word with Tinker Bell. And when his initial enquiries hinted she'd evaded her security some hours before, he knew just who to call.

* * *

"What do you want?" The greeting was brusque, and not altogether what he'd been expecting.

"...Is this a good time?" he asked, hesitating a little at her tone.

"Oh," she said, her frustration seeming to deflate a little. "It's you. Sorry. I get a lot of crank calls. It turns out that when you put idiots behind bars a lot, they tend to take it personally."

Killian could imagine.

"Should I be offended that you didn't program my number into your phone, love?" he asked, with an attempt at levity.

"I've been busy," she countered. "On  _your_  case. And don't call me love."

"Alright,  _Swan_ ," he agreed, smiling despite himself. "Are you familiar with a lass by the name of Tinker Bell?"

A snort over the line. "Yeah, only me and the entire western hemisphere."

"Think you can find her?"

There was a significant pause. "What, like  _now?_ "

"Only if you haven't anything more pressing to do," Killian said sardonically. "She gave her security the slip this morning. Seems she does that a lot. Probably gone to hit up her dealer."

"You have a name for him?"

Killian reached across his desk to grab the post-it note he'd scribbled on earlier. "Just a nickname, and a cell number. Probably a burner."

She sighed audibly. "That'll have to do. Text it to me. I'll track him down and you can meet me."

"Actually…" Killian began, considering his options, "I was rather hoping you might pick me up."

"Oh you did, did you? What, is your ladies' man-mobile in the shop?" The comment was catty, but it was nice to know he hadn't imagined that flare of interest in her eyes when she'd first spotted his car in the lot.

"On the contrary, I seem to have attracted the attention of a particularly tenacious paparazzi photographer, and I have a feeling he's keeping a rather close eye on said ladies' man-mobile."

A low curse, followed by something which sounded like the rattle of keys. "We could do a bait and switch," she offered. "Know of any undercover parking lots?"

"My office has one," he said. "1601 North Gower."

"Hollywood?" she groaned. "Fine, but give me an hour." There was a pause. "You don't have a problem with confined spaces, do you?"

"Would it matter much to you if I did?" he asked, curious.

"Only a little," she admitted. "Text me that stuff. I'll see if I can't track down your drug dealer."

"I'm much obliged," he said. He was about to disconnect the call, when he had a sudden brainwave. "Oh, and could you possibly stop by the grocery store on the way and pick up a bag of uncooked rice?"

There was another pause. "Do I even want to know?"

"All in good time, Swan."

* * *

There was no skintight dress today, nor impractical heels. Instead Emma Swan looked how Killian imaged she must ordinarily look: ready for battle.

From the determined set of her jaw, to the practical ponytail, to the red leather jacket she seemed to wear like armor, there was nothing soft about her appearance. She was undoubtedly beautiful, but there was no denying she gave off a vibe, one that demanded not to be fucked with.

Killian barely had time to admire the look of her in her no-nonsense combat boots before she was pulling her driver's seat back, and motioning for him to get in.

"That's your grand plan? Hide me in the backseat of your Volkswagen?"

"Well," she said, leaning inside to retrieve something. "I would have put you in the trunk, but the latch is broken. And trust me, that wouldn't have been  _half_  as comfortable." She thrust a scratchy grey blanket into his arms. "Cover yourself with this and keep your head down, at least until I'm sure we're in the clear, okay?"

With a token grunt of protest he accepted the blanket, and clambered into the backseat. The floor was littered with food trash, empty to-go cups and crumpled up receipts. Emma caught his expression in the rear-view mirror.

"What? I had a really long stakeout the other day, and I haven't had a chance to clean up."

"I didn't say a word." But the grimace as he pushed the worst of it aside with his boot seemed to say plenty, Emma's muttered reply drowned out by the sound of the engine turning over with a splutter.

Her Bug might have been a classic, but it was hardly in the best of conditions. A thought which gave Killian no comfort as he settled down into the cramped backseat and pulled the blanket over his head, giving himself over to the darkness.

* * *

She finally let him out in some fast food parking lot in any area of town far south of reputable, sweeping a pile of files and discarded food wrappers off the passenger seat to make room for him.

"Charming neighborhood," Killian remarked dryly, taking in the boarded up storefronts opposite, the homeless man pushing a shopping cart down the block with all his worldly possessions inside, seemingly unconcerned by the latest downpour.

"You wanted to find a junkie," Emma shrugged. "This is where they all wind up, sooner or later."

"No sign of our paparazzi friend, then?" Killian asked, casting his eyes around for any vehicles that didn't belong. "He may have switched cars."

"Relax, will you?" Emma said, pulling an open bag of gummy worms out of the glove compartment, and tilting them in his direction. "I know what I'm doing. There was no tail. I made a few unnecessary detours, just to make sure."

Almost apologetically, he accepted a gummy worm. "Sorry, lass. I've never been the best at-"

"You're a control freak," Emma finished for him, smiling as she bit the head off her gummy worm. "Look, I get it," she said, swallowing it down. "You're used to working alone. You're used to being the captain of your own ship.  _Trust me_ , I get it. But you hired me for a reason. So why don't you just sit back and let me do my job?"

Momentarily chastened, Killian took another gummy worm.

"I'm still waiting on a call, re: the exact location of our dealer friend. In the meantime, I was hoping I could maybe share what I've learned so far?"

"By all means," Killian said, with a sweep of his arm.

Almost as if she had expected him to say no, Emma let out a deep breath, and then launched into a detailed deconstruction of Peter Pan's online following.

"I mean, I know you said that Gold wasn't a big fan of the kidnapping angle, but I still thought it was worth a closer look at his more dedicated fans. And sure, most of these so-called 'Shadows' are just kids. They can be kinda zealous, and they send a lot of poorly spelled threats to Pan's detractors, but they don't exactly have the means to follow through. Likewise, I'm sure plenty of them would love to kidnap Peter Pan and act out all their silly schoolgirl fantasies on him, but again, I doubt it." Emma pursed her lips.

"Alright," said Killian. "So why do I feel as if there's more you're not saying?"

"There's…" Emma faltered. "Okay, there's this particular group. A message board. They aren't just casual fans, they're full blown obsessives, and not the harmless type who buy too much merch, or have posters plastered all over their walls. For these guys, they take their role as 'Shadows' a little too literally."

"I originally checked them out because I thought if anyone had caught sight of him the past few days, they would be the first to know. But there's a whole lot more going on than the odd fan selfie. We're talking very personal information about his friends and family. Tracking his whereabouts. Access to photographs that were definitely not obtained legally. Certified stalker stuff."

"So why the hesitation?" Killian wondered aloud.

"Honestly? Because these guys seem a little unhinged. I mean, yeah, everyone feels like they know certain celebrities pretty well. But these guys have pretty much taken it upon themselves to insert themselves into his private life. They find ways to engineer meetings with him when he's out in public. They launch cyber attacks on people in his life they don't feel worthy of him. You should see what they've done to Tinker Bell's Wikipedia page. They're dangerous, in their own way."

"More dangerous than junkies?" Killian asked, amused by the idea of this woman being frightened by online trolls in the face of actual imminent danger.

"Okay, maybe not," she admitted with a wry smile. "But I understand junkies. Their motivations aren't exactly top secret. They're just chasing the next high, any way they can get it. End of story. These people though... I don't know what their endgame is."

They sat in silence, as Killian considered this. Aye, kidnap by stalker, Misery style, seemed as good an explanation for Peter Pan's disappearance as any, assuming Tinker Bell was a dead end. That kind of kidnapper wouldn't be interested in ransom.

"Anyone in particular stick out as especially likely to resort to kidnapping?" Killian asked.

"A couple of prospects," Emma confessed. "The site administrator is local. I thought if the whole Tinker Bell thing was a bust, I'd go pay her a visit. If anything, she'd probably know a hell of a lot more about Pan's movements than I could glean from US Weekly."

"Sounds like a plan," Killian smiled, reaching out for another gummy worm.

"I did some research on you, too," Emma said suddenly, which had Killian pausing with his hand still halfway inside the bag.

"You did, did you?" he asked, extracting his hand and raising one eyebrow. "Well, I can't say I blame you. Who wouldn't want to know more about the man they're getting into bed with?" he said, letting his tongue slide across his bottom lip in a teasing manner.

"Oh, shove it," she said, actually shoving at his shoulder where he leaned across the center console. "Checking up on people is what I do. I'm not stupid enough to think you didn't do a background check on me as soon as we parted last night."

"Not as soon as..." Killian mumbled.

"Well, whatever. Nice mugshot, by the way. Drunk and disorderly?"

A burst of stunned laughter erupted from his chest. "Disturbing the peace, I believe it was. You found that?"

"Oh yeah," she said with a chuckle. "That ponytail was something else."

It might have been argued that the early noughties had not been particularly kind to Killian, style-wise. He cringed internally, knowing Emma had been witness to the worst of it.

"Yours was also very fetching. Orange is definitely your color, lass."

It seemed not entirely the right thing to say, the smile falling from her lips in an instant. "Yeah, well," she said grimly. "I try."

He saw now that he'd made a grievous error. His youthful follies were just that, embarrassing but not embittering. Hers on the other hand, still seemed to land a little too close to home.

He tried to speak, to form some sort of apology, but before he could hope to form words an electronic trill broke right through the growing tension, and Emma dove for her bag, pulling out her phone.

"David, hi, any news?" she answered, getting right down to business.

The following conversation, the half that Killian caught anyway, was brief but friendly. Whoever this David was, drug police, if Killian had to venture a guess, he and Emma were on good terms. And by the looks of the grin stretching fast across her face, he bore good news.

She terminated the call, Killian's earlier careless remark apparently forgotten as she shot him a victorious smile. "Tink's dealer has been bunking down in a flophouse a few blocks over. Ready to go crack some heads?"

* * *

The building where Tink was rumored to be hiding out was a far cry from her beachfront mansion in the Pacific Palisades. And as he got out of the car, Killian wondered how long she might be able to hold onto it such a fine piece of real estate, what with her drug habit back in the driver's seat.

He'd seen it happen before, seen the mighty fall. It was more common than you'd think. It was a hunger that struck indiscriminately. You could be the pillar of your community. A church deacon. A corporate fat cat. A goddamned kindergarten teacher. You could come home every night to your catalogue model wife, your 2.5 kids and your golden retriever, and still not quite contain your existential angst.

Pixie dust was rarely the solution to life's anxieties, but it sure made you forget about them for a little while.

"You should stay in the car," Killian told Emma, as she went to climb out too.

"The hell I am," she said, stepping out and slamming the door shut behind her. "I've been around my share of degenerates. I know how to handle myself."

Killian's mind flashed back to Emma's knee digging in Too Much Cologne Guy's back, and his ruined face after she'd unleashed half a can of mace on him.

"Oh, of that I have no doubt, lass," he agreed with a generous bow. "All the same, I think I should go in alone. If for no other reason than those fellows on the corner there seem mightily interested in us, and I have no desire to return to our getaway vehicle only to find it no longer has tires."

Said fellows, at least five in number, were inching closer now, their curiosity seemingly piqued by the raised voices and the prospect of a fight.

"You handle the locals, and I'll handle the dealer, alright?" he bargained.

Without missing a beat, Emma pulled open her door to reach back into the car and opened the glove compartment, pulling out a plastic contraption and setting it on the dashboard. With the pull of a switch, it began to emit a rotating blue light, blinding in its intensity.

At the sight of it, the lads on the corner scattered like cockroaches, each running in different directions until the street was empty, save for the oblivious homeless man, still trudging determinedly up the block.

"The blue light special," Emma smiled. "Works in a pinch."

Killian merely raised one eyebrow.

"What?" she asked innocently, coming around to stand beside him. "This isn't my first rodeo." Shaking his head, Killian followed her up the stairs to the building's front entrance.

Killian had been all for kicking the door down, but before he could brace himself, Emma gave the front door a firm push and it swung open on its own. It was only then that Killian saw where the wood around the deadbolt had splintered and given way long ago.

"After you," Emma motioned with a hand, trying and failing to not appear too smug.

From the outside, the place had seemed fairly unwelcoming. From the inside, Killian was sure he had never stepped foot inside a worse den of iniquity in his life. Trash lay abandoned in the darkened corridors, graffiti marked near every wall, with something suspiciously like blood staining the carpet on the first floor landing.

At the sight of it, Killian drew his gun from his waistband, and was only mildly surprised to see Emma do the same.

They encountered a few locals as they searched their way from floor to floor, emaciated arms reaching out from the darkness. By the stench of them, basic hygiene had long since been abandoned, but they were all of them too far gone to present much of a threat. David's intel hadn't been entirely specific, so they took the methodical approach, one apartment at a time. No sign of Pan. But they hit paydirt with his girlfriend on the second floor.

Tink lay on a stinking yellow mattress on the floor of a threadbare apartment, eyes rolled back into her skull, her breathing shallow. Her dealer was nowhere to be seen.

While Killian went to check the other bedrooms, Emma took off her jacket and crouched down beside the girl, shaking her gently until her she seemed to come back to reality a little.

She was almost lucid by the time Killian returned, the other bedrooms showing no obvious signs of occupation. Tinker Bell was alone.

"Are you the cops?" she asked, her words slurred and small.

"Not exactly," Emma said gently, pulling her jacket around the girl. "We've come to take you home."

"Nooo," she moaned, nuzzling her head deeper into the mattress, the rest of her words a muffled whine. "Don't make me go back."

Emma glanced up at him, her brows furrowing together.

"I'll grab her," said Killian, stepping forward. "You keep an eye out."

After a lifetime of calorie counting and punishing gym regimes, plus a burgeoning drug habit, Tinker Bell wasn't exactly heavy, even as dead weight. He could have done without the squirming, though.

"Hush now, lass," he said, in attempt at soothing her. "I'm a lot less likely to drop you if you don't move around too much."

Not the mention, the strain was hardly doing wonders for his ribs, which had begun to hurt like the devil.

He turned around, ready to ask Emma to get the door but he wasn't behind her, as he had supposed. He took another step forward, eyes scanning the apartment. "Where the bloody hell did you-"

It was then that he saw the man emerge from the shadows, wielding the knife.

With barely enough time to act, he lunged sideways away from the blow, Tinker Bell still awkwardly gathered into his arms. He came down hard on his knees and fell sideways, not able to reach a hand out to break his fall.

He whipped his head around to see how far off his attacker was, just in time to see Emma rugby tackle the man from behind, his knife skittering to the floor.

Laying Tinker Bell down as gently as he could, Killian made a dive for it. When he turned around with the blade securely in his grip, it was to the man on his knees with the barrel of Emma's gun held to the back of his head.  _Just a junkie_ , Killian realized, the man's nonsensical ramblings hitting his ear. Dangerous in his desperation, but barely holding it together.

"You okay?" Emma asked Killian over the man's head, eyes narrowing as she scanned him for outward signs of injury.

"No holes," he replied a little breathlessly, securing the knife through one of his belt loops in lieu of any better ideas. "You?"

"I'm fine," she said, as if that had never been in doubt, and Killian couldn't repress a small smile.  _She was a tough lass._  "Do you wanna keep this one?" she asked, tapping her gun against the man's skull. "Think he might know anything?"

He considered the man knelt before him, his gaunt frame and his tattered clothing. He could have played an extra in The Great Escape, if it hadn't been for the spitting and cursing.

"Something tells me he's in no condition to be useful. Think you can keep him busy until I've got the lass safely outside?" he asked, going over to where he'd dumped the actress on the floor. She seemed undamaged from the encounter, but not quite back in the land of the living.

"No problem," said Emma, pulling a zip tie out of somewhere. "What are partners for?"

* * *

Not entirely sure how to safely counteract the effects of Tink's drug induced lethargy, they settled for picking up Starbucks. Killian sat in the backseat tipping as much black coffee down the young starlet's throat as she would allow, while Emma drove.

They couldn't risk going back to Killian's office, nor his apartment. Not with Sidney Glass in the wind. He could just imagine the headlines. _Good Girl Gone Bad! Busted: Star's Out Of Control Drug Binge - Page 3 for details_.  _Tink's Secret Drug Hell._  Nothing sold papers quite so well as a fall from grace.

Reluctantly, Emma had offered up her own apartment, in Silver Lake.

"I have to warn you, though," she said, her eyes on his in the rearview mirror. "I don't exactly get a lot of visitors."

He couldn't imagine why. The dust bunnies, threadbare furniture and complete and utter lack of personal effects made for such a charming tableau.

In all seriousness, if he had to describe Emma's living quarters in one word, it would be  _spartan_. The bargain basement furniture looked barely used, not so much as a stray magazine left out on the coffee table. To Killian's eyes, the place looked utilitarian, almost institutional. Not so much a home as simply somewhere to rest one's head.

With a pang, Killian recalled the scant details he'd learned when he'd looked into Emma Swan's past. A ward of the state, in and out of foster homes until she aged out of the system.

He'd suspected as much on their first meeting. It had been in the way she'd been so defensive with him, the roiling emotions reflected in her eyes when he had dared to pry. An orphan was an orphan, after all. He knew the look well enough by now. He'd seen it enough times in the mirror.

His initial assessment of Miss Swan's apartment complete, he dumped Tink onto the couch with a poorly disguised groan of pain.

"The ribs?" Emma asked, eyes furrowing with concern as she helped him into a chair.

"Aye," he replied, trying to force a smile. "Might have overextended myself a tad on the stairs." Taking three flights of stairs with a broken rib and last year's winner of the MTV Best Kiss Award limp in your arms could do that to a man.

"Hang on," she said, stepping back into the center of the room. "I think I have some painkillers… somewhere."

She bustled off in search of medication, and Killian let the facade drop, his hand coming up to brace against his injured side, his face screwing up in agony.

"You're hurt?" Killian startled at the sound, the soft feminine voice from the girl on the couch.

Tinker Bell was cogent again.

Her voice was younger than he remembered from his trips to the multiplex. Here, she wasn't playing at the sultry seductress, with a 9MM strapped to her thigh. Here she was just a girl, sitting up on that ugly couch with Emma's jacket hanging loosely off her shoulders, her blonde hair curling in unwashed tendrils around her face.

"Aye," he said, plastering a false smile on his face, his hand still held firm to his side. "A bit."

"Did I do that?" she asked quietly, biting her bottom lip. "Sometimes I do things, and I don't even remember-"

"You didn't," Killian reassured her quickly. "It's a… football injury."

Tink didn't seem to entirely swallow that lie, but she nodded anyway, just in time for Emma to return holding an actual ice pack, the contents of a white pill bottle rattling in her other hand.

"This is what I use when a takedown gets a little bumpy. They're pretty strong so make sure…" Her words trailed off when she noticed Tink sitting up.

"Hey," she said to the girl in dulcet tones, "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Tink replied, her eyelids drooping in support of that statement. "Where am I?" she asked, turning in Killian's direction.

"Silver Lake," Killian said, reaching out to grab the ice pack from Emma's hands, holding it against his side with a soft gasp. "And a bit of a step up from where we found you, let me tell you."

The lass seemed to be scanning the room now, taking in the finer details of Emma's drab little apartment. "Is this a rehab?" she asked, confused. "You don't look like nurses. Are you a shrink?"

Any other time, Killian might have laughed at the idea of being confused for a mental health professional, but as things stood that seemed like too painful a prospect.

"Private investigators, actually," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet, slipping out his ID and holding it out to her.

After a moment's hesitation, she took it, holding it between unsteady fingers.

"Killian Jones," she read aloud, looking up at him as if in confirmation. He nodded.

"And I'm Emma," said Emma, perching on the end of the coffee table, giving the girl some breathing room.

"Private investigators," Tink said thoughtfully. "Investigating what?"

Killian hesitated. Technically speaking, his confidentiality agreement expressly forbade him from discussing his true motives with anyone except Mr. Gold, Emma and Belle. On the other hand, she was their best lead, and once the call was made, she was headed right back to Promises and out of the public eye. Her chances to expose them were slim.

Evidently Emma was of the same opinion, because she was the one to break first. "Peter," she said gravely. "We're looking for Peter Pan."

* * *

"Peter?" Tink said with some surprise. "Why would you be trying to find Peter?"

Overall, not the most promising start to their inquiries.

"It's Wednesday, and no one has seen him since Saturday night. The party at his house. People are beginning to worry. We were hoping you might be able to help us. We know he left the party with you sometime around five on Sunday morning. We wondered if you could tell us what happened after that," Emma prodded, gently.

"He's missing?" Tink asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

"He hasn't been in contact," Killian added smoothly. "But we're not sure what that means. Do you remember the party?"

The girl frowned at that, a nail-bitten hand coming up to scratch her face. "Yeah, I mean, there were like angels there. And this like, really weird lizard. Peter made me take a selfie with it, even though it was totally gross."

Cherubs and a chameleon. Well, at least he knew she was remembering the right party.

"You left with Peter just before sunrise, in your car. Do you know where you went after that?" Emma asked.

"I… I mean, I think so," Tink said, her eyelids drooping more heavily now. "I'm sorry. I'm so tired."

"It's alright lass," Killian said gently, rising to his feet with a grunt and arranging some pillows on the couch beside her. "Rest your eyes. Then we'll all have some coffee and talk some more, alright?"

The girl made to reply, but she was already out by the time her head hit the pillow.

"Well, that was useful," Emma said sarcastically, stalking back into the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee.

After a few moments, Killian followed her, well-aware Emma still held the bottle of painkillers in her hand.

* * *

While Tinker Bell dozed, Killian called Belle and arranged her transport back to Promises. For an extra five thousand a week, they'd be willing to overlook her unauthorized furlough, and some men would be around to collect her before nightfall.

Then he sat in Emma's sad little kitchen, waiting for his pain medication to kick in. He suspected they may have when he remembered the phone in his jeans pocket. The one he'd fished from the bottom of Peter Pan's koi pond.

"Swan!" he called, momentarily startling her from where she sat with her laptop at the kitchen table, scanning the internet for leads of any kinds.

"You hollered?"

"Did you happen to remember that bag of uncooked rice I requested?"

She raised an eyebrow, shutting the lid of the laptop. "Sure. It's not kind of request you forget in a hurry. I slipped it in the cupboard," she said, waving her hand in the general direction.

A little easier than before, Killian rose from his chair and went in search of the promised item, coming to a halt when he saw the contents of her cupboards. He'd thought that her kitchen cabinets would retain all of the dour practicality of the rest of her apartment. The staples, nothing more. That was not, however, the case.

The cupboard he opened was full to bursting. Row after gleaming row of tinned spaghetti. Soup. Pop-Tarts. Cereal. Literally years worth of non-perishables, sitting in silent reserve.

He chanced a look back at Emma, but her attention had returned back to the laptop, fixated on hunting down the site administrator's exact whereabouts.

There were a few possibilities here. Perhaps Emma Swan was a born survivalist, preparing for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. Perhaps she was simply a Costco fiend, and really enjoyed buying in bulk. But if Killian were truly honest with himself, he thought it was most probably the third option: Emma Swan remembered what it was to be hungry, and as a relatively successful adult, was not looking to repeat the experience anytime soon.

He spied the bag of rice on one of the lower shelves and retrieved it with nary a groan, and shut the cupboard door before Emma could realize he'd been gawking.

He found a perfectly serviceable cereal bowl in another cabinet, and placed it down on the kitchen counter, and poured in every last grain of rice.

The sound seemed to have grabbed Emma's attention at last, as she got up to stand beside him. "Again, should I ask, or is this just some weird British thing?"

With a wink in her direction Killian pulled the dead cell phone out of his pocket and wiggled it in his hands. "I found this in the koi pond at Peter Pan's house. It's a long shot," he shrugged, digging the phone right down in the rice until it disappeared from sight. "But I figured I didn't have anything to lose."

Emma nodded, a sudden flare of understanding in her eyes. "I've heard of that trick, but I've never actually seen it work."

"It does," Killian said. "Most of the time, anyway. Remind me to check on that later."

* * *

The next time Tinker Bell stirred they got her up and into Emma's shower, the bathroom door left open a crack in case she decided to make a run for it, or fall asleep mid shower.

Fortunately for them, she did neither, emerging twenty minutes later looking decidedly more lively, wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe that vaguely reminded Killian of a peach. Handing her a fresh cup of coffee, they steered her back to Emma's tiny living room, to begin the interrogation anew.

"So…" Emma began. "Peter?"

"Right," Tink said, taking a tiny sip from her mug. "Peter. You said he's missing, right?"

Killian swallowed back a groan. "Aye, his management certainly seem to think so, seeing as they've hired us to sniff him out. All we need from you, is to tell us what happened after you left the party on Saturday night."

"The party…" Tink repeated, her face screwing into some kind of thinking face.

"Angels and weird lizards?" Killian prompted.

Something must have clicked, because the young woman's mouth dropped open. "Oh, yeah, right. I remember. The party."

"And you and Peter left in your car, just before 5am, according to the security footage at the gate. What happened after that?"

Killian saw the rapid blink, the tell that there was more than just a simple drive home.

"An argument?" he prompted gently. "About you showing up at the party, perhaps?"

"It wasn't his fault," she began, eyes darting between them beseechingly. "You know that, right?"

"What wasn't his fault?" Emma asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Tink began shaking her head, as if fending off their accusing eyes. "I get like that sometimes. It's the dust. I get all paranoid, and I think he doesn't love me anymore. He had all these texts from some girl, and I thought he was cheating on me."

"Tink?" Killian asked, taking the mug from her hands, and setting it down on the coffee table. "What happened in the car?"

"He left me, okay? He started yelling, and I bailed at a traffic light. And he drove off and left me. I had to call one of my friends to come and pick me up." She looked up at Killian then with vulnerable kitten eyes. "I haven't seen him since then. I think it's over."

"He hasn't called? Left a message?" asked Emma.

Tinker Bell gave a hollow laugh. "Might be pretty hard, seeing as his phone is sleeping with the fishes. One of many reasons he's probably still mad at me."

Killian could see Emma's gaze drift back towards the kitchen, and the recovered phone drying out on the counter.  _Sleeping with the fishes, eh?_

"It was stupid," Tink continued. "I know that. Grade A clingy girlfriend stuff. I just thought, he might have trouble texting this Regina chick, if he didn't have a phone. It was stupid. _I_  was stupid."

Killian might have agreed, had he not gone stock still. " _Regina?_ " he repeated, in a somewhat strangled voice. "That's who Peter was texting?"

"Yeah," Tink said with a shrug, reaching for her cup of tea again. "He had a whole lot of them from some chick called Regina. Regina…. Something starting with M. Morgan? Miller? Something like that."

"Mills," Killian supplied. "Regina Mills."

Tink's eyes lit up. "Yeah, that's the one! How'd you know?"

Killian shot Emma a significant look over the lass's head. "A wild guess."


	5. In the Spider's Den

**In which Killian pays Regina a visit, after hearing Peter had been in touch.**

_"We're a big rough rich wild people and crime is the price we pay for it, and organized crime is the price we pay for organization."_

_\- The Long Goodbye_

"So I'm assuming by the way you've been grinding your teeth for the last hour, that you know exactly who Regina Mills is," Emma said, when the drug-addled starlet and her new minders had finally left.

Aye, he knew Regina Mills. Professionally. Personally. Biblically. Knew her well enough to know that her involvement in this case was not a good sign.

Getting in deep with a loan shark because you can't stop snorting your untold millions up your nose? It was a problem. Getting in deep with Regina Mills? Well, let's just say, Killian wouldn't recommend it.

Regina was like a pit viper, who'd been raised on Versace and the blood of innocents. Regina's much older husband had died under mysterious circumstances some years back, leaving her with untold billions in old oil money, and time enough left to spend it. Some might have rested on their laurels at that point, and taken up tennis lessons. Maybe pilates.

Not so Regina.

Instead she'd taken up organised crime, swiftly eradicating most of her competitors through rather barbarous means. Now she reigned as the unofficial Queen of the Criminal Underworld from her mansion in Beverly Hills. Not because she needed the money, but because she liked it.

"And?" Emma prompted, breaking Killian from his thoughts.

"Aye," he replied grimly. "I know her. And she isn't some groupie he's been seeing on the side, either. If Peter Pan was having clandestine meetings with Regina Mills, then he's in a lot more trouble than we thought."

"Oh?"

He glanced back at Emma's face, her raised brows. "Perhaps I should handle this one on my own," he suggested lightly. "Regina and I… we share a rapport."

Emma's eyes narrowed, her hands landing on her hips. "You've slept with her, haven't you?"

It might have surprised him that she could read him so well. But then, he was beginning to get used to that.

"Perhaps," he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. And then with a raised brow, "And if I have?"

Emma didn't answer him, but her eye roll said enough. "And what exactly will I be doing, while you catch up with your old girlfriend? Because if you think I'm just going to just wait in the car like an idiot..." She let her words trail off, the colorful threats to follow left ambiguous.

 _Girlfriend_  is not the word that Killian would have used.

"On the contrary, I was rather hoping you might be able to trace the current location of Tinker Bell's car. The green Mini? It hasn't turned up yet, and the last anyone knows, Peter was the one driving it. It stands to reason that if we find the car, we're one step closer to finding Pan. If we're lucky, it's in the Lojack system. Or maybe he blocked the wrong guy's driveway, and got towed."

A low groan emanated from Emma's throat.

Killian raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Problem?"

"Have you ever _met_  anyone from the Parking Violations Bureau?"

He'd slept with a meter maid once, to get out of a ticket. Somehow he didn't think this was the appropriate time to mention it.

"They're assholes," she concluded matter-of-factly. "And there's nearly twenty police impound lots in this city, and they suck at updating their databases."

"Unless of course," Killian interrupted, "you'd rather be delving back into the magical world of the Peter Pan fandom instead?"

If looks could kill, Killian would be six feet under already.

"I  _am_  paying you," he reminded her. All he got in response was a raised middle finger.

* * *

If he could've shown up unannounced, he would've. He liked having people on the back foot from the very first. They tended to slip up that way. They tended to make mistakes.

Regina Mills didn't make mistakes, and she wasn't one to get caught unawares, either. Her sprawling Mediterranean style mansion lay in Beverly Hills, the part not even the tour buses were allowed to visit. Security was tight. The community was gated, and no one went in or out without prior permission. And if one were to breach that first level of resistance, there were still the random patrols to worry about. And if by some miracle, one managed to evade  _them_ , the walls to Regina's compound were still near twenty feet high, and Killian had never been particularly fond of abseiling.

As things stood, there wasn't enough time to concoct a believable cover story that would get him inside. A newly hired landscaper. A journalist doing a profile. These things required groundwork. Favors cashed in. Time. Not a luxury Killian had.

There would be no going unannounced. Fortunately, he had one thing going for him; Regina had never bothered to remove his name from the list of approved visitors.

* * *

"You know," said Killian, as he took his first few steps into Regina's marble foyer, saving a wink for the heavy in the monkey suit who'd frisked him on the way in. "You really ought to think about updating your security. A man might get the wrong idea, otherwise."

The woman on the staircase, resplendent in a formal black evening gown, gave a haughty laugh, tossing her long dark hair over one shoulder as she descended the last few steps. "Oh please. We both know you're not here for that. I'm poisonous, remember?"

He remembered. He'd been in this very room when he'd spat out the words, sick with shame and self-loathing. He'd been angry at himself mostly, at letting himself get tangled in her web in the first place. At letting himself fall headlong into darkness. At letting himself enjoying it.

"Aye," he said, his hand coming up to scratch a phantom itch behind his ear. "Perhaps not my finest choice of words."

"No?" she asked, stepping closer still until Killian found himself hit with the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5. She seemed almost amused by his half-baked apology, her lips twisting into a smirk. "I've been called worse."

She gestured for him to follow her towards the drawing room, and turned, letting the fabric of her dress sway tantalizingly behind her, precisely as it was designed to do. After a moment he trailed after her, stumbling slightly in his haste to catch up.

"Going somewhere tonight?" he called after her as they entered the room. "Only you seem a little overdressed for lounging at home, and I doubt very much this-," he gestured to the gown and professional coiffure, "was for my benefit."

"Hardly," she scoffed, turning towards the wet bar. "There's a benefit at the Getty tonight. For blood cancer, or unwed mothers, or something. I don't know," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "The usual crowd of leeches after the contents of my pocketbook."

Killian took a seat on the white modular lounge and placed a hand on his chest. "You're a regular Mother Teresa, you know that?"

She smiled an acid smile and handed him a glass. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled. Spiced rum. The good stuff.  _He really was getting too predictable._

"Cheers," he said, lifting it in her direction as she took a seat opposite him. "And I appreciate you not calling the dogs on me. I'm well aware that the last time... I could've handled things better."

"Is that what you're here for?" she asked in a amused voice, reaching up to adjust one diamond earring. " _Closure?_ "

Killian snorted into his glass. "Not quite. I'm actually here on business. A case, even."

"One of your little mysteries?" she condescended, as if Killian were nothing more than a child in a trilby hat, doing his best Sam Spade impersonation.

"Peter Pan."

 _That_  got her attention. She nearly yanked the earring she'd been fiddling with right out of her earlobe before she could maintain her icy composure.

"Pan?" she said, in a deceptively cool tone. "What do I care about Peter Pan?"

"That's the line you're taking? Interesting." With a sigh, he dug into his pocket and extracted a phone, waving it a little so that Regina could get a good look at it. "Because according to this, you and Peter Pan have had plenty to talk about lately. And now he's missing. You see how a man might start to wonder if there's a connection."

If he wasn't mistaken, she paled a little.

"You have Peter Pan's cell phone?" she asked, her words even.

"Aye," Killian said, slipping the device back into his pocket. "And it seems the lad's rather terrible about deleting sensitive texts," he tutted gently. "Kids these days, they don't seem to know the meaning of the word  _circumspect_."

He ought to have been more surprised by the shock of cold steel against his neck, the muzzle of the gun pressed hard against the base of his spine. He tilted his head back a fraction, to get a look at his would-be assassin.

It wasn't the kind of face one forgot in a hurry, all chiseled good looks and statement beard. Regina had always had a thing for the pretty boys. If Killian wasn't mistaken, he'd seen this particular one gracing a billboard on Wilshire Boulevard in his Calvins not too long ago, looking like a nice side of prime beef.

Killian turned back to Regina with a smile. "My replacement, I presume?"

The blow came quickly, a white hot flash of pain against the back of his head as the butt of the gun struck home.

It had the desired effect. Killian body curled instinctively inward, a loud curse escaping his lips even as his hands rushed to the affected area. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

"Graham." Through the haze of his pain, he heard Regina call off her dog.

Taking a few minutes to recover himself, Killian placed a steadying hand on the couch, sad to realise his glass of rum had not survived his pistol whipping. It now lay in a sad puddle on the marble floor, by the shattered remains of his glass.  _Such a waste_.

Within moments his attacker had his shoulders in a vice-like grip, grinning down at him with all the barely contained excitement of a pit bull itching to be let off the leash. "The phone, sweetheart," the man said, his accent pure Norn Iron.

It took a moment for the request to compute, as the throbbing in Killian's skull gave way to a dull ache. Slowly, he reached down into his jeans pocket, drew out the cellphone with a flourish, handing it over. The man, Graham, wasted no time in removing the SIM card and snapping it in two. The rest he dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, all the better to crush beneath his formidable looking boots.

"Actually-" announced Killian with a sheepish grin, "that wasn't Peter Pan's cell phone. That was just a spare I had laying around. But thank you for confirming you've got a stake in the matter. So… Peter Pan? See him recently?"

Her henchman paused in his destructions mid-step, awaiting further instructions.

With a scowl, Regina dismissed him, crossing her legs over and leaning back in her chair to fix Killian with a look of renewed interest."I could just shoot you now and be done with it," she suggested blithely.

"You could," Killian agreed. "But just think of the mess. Blood and brains everywhere. You'd definitely have to get rid of this couch. Now  _that_  would be the real crime. It really ties the room together."

If he wasn't mistaken, something almost akin to amusement curled at the corners of those blood red lips. "You have another suggestion?"

"Well.." Killian began, affixing his most dashing smile. "We could shelve all talk of shooting me. You know, for later. And you could tell me what has you so spooked. Obviously Pan owed you money. Near everyone does. But I'm guessing if you're willing to sully this beautiful room with my insides, there's a little more to it."

"I know nothing about the whereabouts of Peter Pan," Regina responded with an almost practiced response.

"And your lawyer would be so proud," Killian said. "And yet, you've had dealings with him. Recently. I wasn't entirely bluffing about the phone. Just because I wasn't idiot enough to bring it with me doesn't mean I don't have it. How else would I know about the texts?"

"You don't have anything," Regina said coolly.

"Oh really? And I suppose that paparazzo that has been following me around isn't one of yours either? Mr Sidney Glass?"

To her credit, Regina's expression was inscrutable. She'd had time to put her game face on.

"Tell me," Killian continued. "Is it that I've gotten too close? Or... No. That's not it, is it? Did you lose Pan too? Is that it? And you're hoping I'm the one who is going to lead you to him?" Killian put his hand over his heart. "I'm almost flattered, lass."

Regina glowered. "I don't need your help to conduct my affairs."

"No, of course not," Killian said with a wave of his hand. "Perish the thought. You've got your A-Team already on it. Stalker McStalkerface and Marky Mark over there. You don't need me."

Her answering glare might have set him on fire in the right conditions, and Killian decidedly to switch tactics.

"Though," he began, a little gingerly. "It would be mighty convenient, wouldn't it? After all, Mr Gold's already footing the bill. If I  _do_  find the lad in a timely fashion, you get your money back, he gets his world tour back on track, and everyone's a winner."

Regina said nothing, but her posture seemed a little less rigid, so Killian continued. "I  _would_  need something from you in return, however. Tit for tat, and all that."

"I know nothing about the whereabouts of Peter Pan," Regina repeated, in the same practised tone as before.

Killian bit back a groan. "Aye, so you said. You know, it's in your best interest to help me. I'll take anything. A name. A place. Anything you might have on Pan that his nearest and dearest might have left out."

Regina rose one expertly tinted brow, leaning forward slightly in her seat. "Gold must be paying you pretty well for you to even consider asking me for help."

Killian shrugged. "Well enough."

"So what does  _he_  think has happened to the pride of his collection?"

"Misadventure, most like," Killian supplied. "Either drugs or girls or a deal gone South. He doesn't much care what, so long as his prized canary is singing again by the weekend."

Regina leaned back in her seat, as if considering that.

"Alright," she said at last, rising to her feet. "I will admit I want Pan found. As for any…  _insight_  I might lend your case, I'll be in touch."

"You'll…" Killian bit back a curse. "You do realise I'm on a deadline here?"

"I'll be in touch," Regina repeated, more firmly this time. "But for now, it's time for you to go. If you'll recall, I have a pressing engagement."

"Oh yes, we can't forget about those puppies and orphans, can we?" Killian scowled, as he followed her from the room.

"My mother always used to say that sarcasm was the lowest form of humor," Regina remarked, in a reminiscent kind of way.

"Remind me, was that before or after you tried to have her killed?" Killian wondered aloud, as he trailed her through the foyer.

Regina gave him a sly smile. "And here I thought you weren't here to flirt with me?"

Killian ignored the crack, and dipped his head low to press a perfunctory kiss to the top of Regina's jewel-encrusted hand. "Always a pleasure, Ms Mills. I'll be waiting on your call."

"So that's a no to being my plus one?" she called after him.

"My number's the same," he called back, before disappearing behind a line of shrubbery.


	6. The Shot Through the Window

**In which things take a decidedly dangerous turn.**

**_"I looked down at the chessboard. The move with the knight was wrong. I put it back where I had moved it from. Knights had no meaning in this game. It wasn't a game for knights."_ **

**_\- The Big Sleep_ **

The place had been Emma's choice, a greasy spoon on Figueroa that stayed open late for the Staples Center crowd, serving up a steady stream of hamburgers and heart disease. Killian was already halfway through his well-earned stack of pancakes when his phone began to vibrate in his jeans pocket. Laying his fork down with a reluctant sigh, he dug it out to see he'd received a new SMS.

 _Tick Tock_ , read the message. Killian stowed his phone back into his pocket with a scowl, and returned to his pancakes.

"You didn't wait for me?" He looked up to see Emma standing over him with a forlorn expression, before she flopped down in the booth opposite him, shedding her rain slicker.

"You took too long," he shrugged. "And I was hardly going to let them go cold. Your country has a lot of problems, but the availability of pancakes at all hours is certainly not one of them," he said, punctuating his words with a jab of his fork in her direction. "In fact, one might go so far as to say that it's the most wondrous contribution America ever made to the world."

Emma looked suitably unimpressed. "Really? The  _most_  wondrous? You're sure? Not like, space travel, or I don't know, the invention of the swivel chair? Or the Roomba?"

"Nope," said Killian, popping the p. "Definitely 24 hour pancakes. But cheer up, lass. I ordered you a grilled cheese, per your request. Should be out soon."

"And fries?" Emma asked.

"Onion rings," Killian responded blithely, raising another forkful of pancake to his mouth.

Emma smiled then, the first actual honest-to god smile he'd ever seen from her. He had to admit, it was a good look on her. "Well done, Jones. You passed the test."

"Does that mean I've won the right to know here you've been the last half hour?"

She snorted, pulling out her bag and rummaging through it. "Here," she said, tossing something in his direction. Killian's hands already occupied, it bounced against his chest and fell into his lap, making him yelp. "If you're going to continue to antagonize every person you meet this week, you might be needing this."

It was a cold compress, the kind they might give you in the emergency room. An oddly thoughtful gesture, were it not for the fact that the cold of it was currently seeping through into his crotch.

"Cheers, lass," he said with a wince, reaching down to retrieve it.

"I still can't believe you got beat up by Graham Humbert. I mean, I'm pretty sure I've seen that guy's junk hanging over the I-5 Freeway."

"He didn't _beat me up_ ," Killian scowled, feeling for the place on the back of his head where it was still tender. "He came up behind me and pistol whipped me. It's an entirely different-"

His protests were interrupted by the arrival of a waitress bearing Emma's meal. With all the petulance of a spoiled child, he swiped an onion ring from her plate, eyes daring her to complain as he held the compress to his head with the other hand.

"So..." she said instead, once she'd swallowed her first mouthful of her grilled cheese. "Other than sustaining a possible concussion, how'd the meeting with the Regina go? She try any moves on you?"

"Is that jealousy I detect?" Killian asked, setting down the compress and steepling his fingers under his chin as he gave her a saucy grin.

Rather than dignify that with an answer, Emma chucked an onion ring at his face, grinning victoriously as it slid down his cheek, leaving a trail of ketchup in its wake.

"Are we twelve?" he asked, wiping the sauce away with his napkin.

Emma raised her hands in front of her, as though she were entirely blameless in this scenario. "I looked her up, you know. Regina. While I was stuck in the car. With nothing else to do. You could have told me what kind of person she was."

"Didn't I?" Killian asked, stealing another onion ring. They were unexpectedly delicious when dipped in maple syrup.

"You told me she was bad news. I thought you meant she was a gold digger with a thing for younger guys. You somehow failed to mention she controls every black market trade in Western Los Angeles!" It was at this point that Emma realized she'd spoken too loudly. The college kids a few booths over were staring, as was the guy with the laptop over by the counter.

"Perhaps a little more discretion, Swan?" Killian suggested quietly, as he leaned over to nab another onion ring.

Emma merely glowered, returning to her grilled cheese.

"My visit to Regina's was not particularly fruitful," he said at last. "She has had dealings with Pan. I got her to admit as much. My understanding is he owes her a pretty penny, but I don't think she's the one responsible for his disappearance. For one, it's not her style."

"Really?" Emma asked, putting down her sandwich. "From what I've heard, murder and/or kidnap seems right up her alley."

Alright, so she was judging him.

"Well," said Killian, cocking his head to side. "Yes and no. She's certainly capable of it. But Regina is flashy. If someone has done her wrong, she likes to make an example of them. There's a reason most of my clients fled when she and I went our separate ways, and believe you me, it has little to do with the state of the economy. Pan just falling off the face of the planet... it's not vindictive enough. Also, there's the money angle to consider…"

"The money angle?"

"Aye. Say Peter Pan  _does_  owe Regina rather a lot of money, wouldn't it make more sense for her to do away with him  _after_  his highly profitable world tour? It's just bad business, otherwise."

Emma considered this, munching thoughtfully on a onion ring. "Okay, so maybe Peter Pan left under his own steam. Maybe he got scared about being under Regina's thumb and made a run for it."

"Perhaps," Killian mused. "Or perhaps there is someone else who stands to gain from his disappearance. But I'll be damned if I can see who. How'd it go with locating the car?"

"We got lucky," she said, pulling out her phone onto the table, to show him the results of her search. "It's currently accumulating a whole lot of fees in a police garage in Van Nuys."

"Van Nuys?" It seemed a little out of the way for someone last seen on Sunset, heading West.

"It has an airport," Emma supplied. "Plenty of private charters. Maybe he managed to pay someone off to fly him out, on the quiet."

As much as Killian was looking forward to racking up the frequent flier miles on Mr Gold's dime, he rather hoped not.

"Is that where they found the car?"

"Not sure," Emma frowned. "They weren't exactly forthcoming over the phone. Especially with the vehicle registered to a  _prominent person_. Probably thought I was the press. I'm getting Belle to strong arm them into cooperating."

 _Smart lass_. He wondered where she'd gotten Belle's number.

"Shall we pay them a visit tomorrow morning, then?" Killian suggested. "See what clues we can dig up?"

"Sure," Emma said, swallowing down her last onion ring. "I was going to go see that girl tomorrow, from the fansite? But she lives in Calabasas, so I guess it isn't so far out of the way. You still want me to play chauffeur?"

"On the contrary, lass, I'm almost positive my stalker is one of Regina's minions. She didn't deny it, anyway, and that's as good as an admission as I'm likely to get. So I'll drive. Let Sidney Glass get a good look. Might as well give Regina a show, let her know I've turned my attentions elsewhere. It'll calm her down a little, and she might be more forthcoming."

Emma's brow furrowed. "I thought you didn't like her for this?"

"I don't, but that doesn't mean she can't be useful to us. Her web stretches into all kinds of dark little places. And eventually she'll figure that it's in her best interest to help us, if she ever wants to collect on Pan's debts."

"Wait, so you mean I get to ride in the ladies man mobile?" Emma asked, waggling her eyebrows. "Wow."

"Darling," Killian said, bringing his fork up to his mouth. "You have no idea."

* * *

"I told you they were assholes," Emma whispered unhelpfully, as Killian reluctantly slipped his credit card underneath the plexiglass partition.

Daylight robbery, it was. Not only had the pair of them stood uselessly outside the gates for twenty minutes in the rain before someone had let them in, but now they were expected to pay the accumulated fees on the car to date if they wished to get a look at it.

At least Gold would be footing the bill on this one.

"One moment," the woman on the counter said in a bored voice, buzzing them through the next gate.

They were met on the other side by a suspiciously chipper-looking specimen in mechanic's overalls, holding a clipboard in one hand, an umbrella in the other. Ducking underneath it, Killian spotted the name embroidered on his chest. _Billy_. In stark contrast to the no-nonsense woman on the front desk who'd been so content to fleece Killian blind, this Billy was all smiles and youthful energy, keeping up a steady stream of friendly chatter as they wove between the cars.

The lot might have been gravel at one point, but now it more resembled a quagmire, Killian's boots sinking up to his ankles in mud. The cars seemed to be faring no better. The sat there, row after row of every imaginable make and model, in varying states of repair. He found himself unexpectedly sad to see them this way: stickered, mud-splattered, neglected. Like whenever he thought about carnival rides out of season.

"Here she is," Billy said, handing off the umbrella to Killian so he could make a dramatic gesture. There she was. A green Mini Cooper with tinted windows, just as Killian recalled from the security footage from Peter Pan's compound.

"Do you know where it was towed from?" Emma asked, hands cupped to the glass as she peered through the passenger side window.

"Up on Mulholland, according to this. Sunday night. A local patrol called it in," Billy said, consulting his clipboard. "Doors unlocked, key still in the ignition."

Emma whirled around in alarm. "For real?"

"It's not that uncommon," Billy shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the change in her tone. "Kids go for a joyride, they panic and dump the car somewhere out of the way." All said as if he wasn't little more than a child himself, with a sad attempt at a mustache shadowing his upper lip. And then in a too-casual whisper in Killian's direction,"Is it really Tinker Bell's?"

 _Ah_. So that explained the enthusiasm.

"Err… it belongs to her management company," Killian said, stepping into the fray. "They've asked us to take a look."

"They haven't filed a police report…" Billy frowned, examining the forms in front of him.

"Well, there's no real harm done, is there?" Killian said jovially, clapping him on the back. "Car's in one piece. No need for a witch hunt. Only, I've been asked to check if any personal effects are still in place. If you'd be so kind…"

It took the lad a minute, but after an expectant look from Emma, he nodded furiously, and took a step back, his rubber boots squelching in the mud. "I'll just… Give you a moment."

As soon as he disappeared out of sight Emma slumped against the car in relief. "Oh, thank god. He's a sweet kid and all, but  _Jesus_."

"Time to get to work," Killian said, pulling open the passenger door and holding it for her with a grin.

"And what exactly am I looking for?" she asked, crawling into the front seat.

"Anything. Everything."

He could have sworn she muttered something under her breath at that point, but it was drowned out by the sound of her rummaging through the contents of the glove compartment.

"We've got double-sided tape, a chapstick, and a receipt for…." Emma let the tension build as she unwrapped the wad of paper, "Mascara. Kill me. Her drug habit might say Courtney Love, but her car says head cheerleader."

Killian cursed internally. "No sign of Pan?"

"Not so much. Not unless he's the one who left these Taylor Swift CDs in here."

"Alright," he said, holding the umbrella out to cover her exit. "So that was a bust."

"What the hell would he be doing on Mulholland anyway? It's nowhere near the airport, or any other place."

"A clandestine place to switch vehicles?" Killian suggested.

"And just leave his girlfriend's car out in the wilderness, doors open? Really?"

"Misadventure?" Killian proposed. "Cougar attack? Harakiri by way of rocky cliff?"

"I really hate this case," Emma groaned, slamming the car door shut with enough force that the sound reverberated across the line of cars opposite, making Killian wince.

"Well, I guess there's nothing else for it. How fast do you think you can get young William to divulge the exact location where the car was found?"

Emma seemed to perk up a little at the idea of a challenge. "With the jacket on, or without?" she asked, letting the red leather slide off her shoulders.

The tank top she wore underneath had originally been white, now practically sheer in places after suffering through the latest downpour. The black lace of her bra was now perfectly visible underneath, the damp fabric clinging deliciously to her skin.

It was a peculiar sensation, Killian thought. On one hand, a rather large part of him was tempted to offer her a blanket. And on the other hand, well, he felt like he'd just bloody won the lottery.

"Tha- That'll work," he coughed, eyes traveling up to meet her amused smile.

"Here," she said, tossing him her jacket. He caught it awkwardly against his body, the leather still warm with the heat of her. "If I'm back in less than two minutes, lunch is on you."

She was back in one, the location scribbled on a scrap of paper, along with Billy's phone number.

"You hungry?" she asked, holding it in front of his face for his inspection. "I'm thinking steak."

* * *

"You found this lass with her… what?" Killian asked, as he pulled up out the front of one of twenty or so identical coffee bars on Ventura Boulevard.

"I told you. Her IP address?" At his blank look, Emma's shot him a long-suffering look. "Seriously, how do you ever find anyone? Do you just stumble on them by accident?"

"Computers aren't really my forte."

"Neither is finding people, apparently."

Killian clutched his hands to his chest in mock pain. "Ouch, Swan."

"Oh, shut up," she said, throwing open her door. "Anyway, then all I had to do is find her on Facebook. This is where she works. Please let me do the talking. You're going to scare her away with all that hair and face and accent."

"Am I?" Killian asked with a smirk.

"Starting now."

Pan_lover_91, as she was known on the internet, was the chief rabble rouser of her little corner of the Peter Pan fandom. In real life? She was a psych major and part-time barista living in the Valley.

"What can I get you?" the girl at the register asked with all the enthusiasm of someone at the tail end of a shift, her pasted-on smile not reaching her eyes. "Maybe one of our Valentine's specials? 2 large coffees for the price of 1?"

"How about it, love?" Killian asked, raising one eyebrow in Emma's direction. "Nice way to warm up on this sodden afternoon…"

Pausing only briefly to give him a warning glare, Emma turned to the barista with a false smile of her own. "It's Wendy, right?"

The girl frowned. "Says so right here on the name tag," she said, tapping in with one bitten-down fingernail.

"Pan_lover_91?" Emma asked, leaning forward to whisper the words between them.

The cashier's eyes went wide. "How did you-"

"My name is Emma. This is Killian," she said, jerking her thumb in his direction. "We've been hired by Mr Gold. Could we have a word?"

Stunned into complicity, the girl turned around to address her nearest co-worker. "I'm on break. Cover me?" Then, without waiting for his assent, she ducked out the side door into the alley, Emma and Killian following closely behind.

"How did you find me?" she asked again, reluctantly stepping into the shadow of Killian's hastily produced umbrella.

Emma shrugged. "We like to keep an eye on Peter Pan's more devout fans."

"Really?" The girl was looking paler by the minute, and Killian nudged Emma's elbow, urging her to get to the main spiel before the girl thought to run, or scream, or pass out.

"You're not in trouble," Emma hastened to add. "On the contrary, without fans like you, Peter Pan wouldn't enjoy the kind of career he does."

 _Flattery_. A tried and true method they'd discussed over lunch.

"We're so sorry to approach you like this," Emma continued, face stamped with apology. "Only we've received a stalking threat, and we were hoping you might be of some assistance."

The girl's mouth dropped open. "No- Not me. I would never. I mean, I've met him a few times but I'd nev-"

Emma waved away the girl's panicked denials. "We aren't looking at you," she said, in a soothing voice. "One of your users however…"

"ShadowGirl?" The girl supplied anxiously, fast enough to give Killian whiplash.

"Err… maybe," Emma offered. "Has she made any particularly troubling posts lately?"

"I mean," she said, teeth worrying her bottom lip, "I'm pretty sure she was the one who hacked Tink's Wikipedia. But I mean, she's probably just looking out for him. I mean, Tinker Bell is bad news. Everyone knows that."

"Sure," Emma said, Killian admiring the restraint that it took to keep her her expression impassive.

"I mean, did you see the photos of her at the Grammy's afterparty? All glassy eyes and no panties? Who does that?"

Alright, so they'd deviated a little.

"Bringing things right around," Killian cut in at last. "So, do you know if this ShadowGirl has ramped up her efforts of late? You were awfully quick to think of her."

Ignoring Emma's look, he leaned in closer to the girl, letting her fall under his spell. "Hmm?"

"I… No," she said, almost sounding disappointed. "I mean, she lives in the Philippines. There's only so much stalking you can do, you know?"

" _The Philippines?_ " repeated Emma weakly.

"According to her profile, anyway," Wendy shrugged, seeming to have recovered herself somewhat. "So was there anything else you needed from me? I should really get back in there. John is new and hasn't really got the leaf in the foam thing down pat just yet."

"Uh, no, that's fine," Emma said, feeling around in her jacket pocket. "Thanks for your time, Wendy. And if you think of anything-" she pulled out a plain looking business card, bearing only a cell phone number, pressing it into the girl's palm.

The girl smiled down at it, before stuffing it into the pocket of her apron. "Sure thing."

Killian waited for the door to swing shut behind her before he let out a groan. "Bloody hell,  _The Philippines?!_ " he shouted at no one is particular, landing a kick at a nearby trash can, the lid flying off down the alley.

"Constructive," Emma murmured, pulling out her phone. "How's your rib?"

"Fine," he responded darkly, though the wince as he took his next step said otherwise.

She rolled her eyes. "There's some more pain meds in my bag. C'mon," she said, grabbing him by the forearm, and leading him back out onto the street.

"When did you get those cards made up?" he asked idly, as they reached the mouth of the alley, the Firebird parked only a few feet away.

"What?" she asked, the curve of a smile at her lips. "You're saying you don't keep any on hand? What kind of PI are-"

But before she could deliver her latest admonishment, there was loud  _pop_ , and the sound of breaking glass.

"Get down!" Killian shouted, falling to the ground beside the car, and bringing Emma down hard with him.

"What the-"

But the protest died on her lips as the unmistakable sound of gunfire followed, a volley of shots lighting up the area all around them. A woman was screaming. The front window of the coffee shop exploded, spraying them in broken glass, chips of the brickwork following suit.

There was an eerie silence.

"Are they gone?" Emma whispered, her face pale and frightened underneath him, no trace of her usual bravado.

"Shhhh," Killian warned, but there was no sound except hushed sobbing coming from somewhere nearby.

He pulled himself up into an experimental crouch, preparing to check the coast was clear when there came a final  _pop_. The passenger window a foot above his head shattered with the force of that final bullet, the sting of broken glass against his skin as it showered down upon them.

Then there was a telltale squeal of tires as the shooter appeared to flee the scene, leaving nothing but devastation and the smell of burnt rubber in their wake.


	7. Unthought Known

**In which everyone responds to stress a little differently.**

_**"Time passed again. I don't know how long. I had no watch. They don't make that kind of time in watches anyway."** _

_**-Farewell, My Lovely** _

Killian knew the signs.

He knew them by the sound of his heart beating in his ears, and how his vision began to blur at the edges. By the way the ground rose up to meet him when he tried to stand up, the world shifting on its axis. By the sharp sting of broken glass slicing into his palm as he tried to steady himself.

_Breathe, little brother._

What a novel concept. If only he'd thought of that earlier.

He slumped sideways, the side of the Firebird slick under his hand. Though rain or his own blood, he wasn't sure. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it did little to stop the flood of sensations. The cacophony of sirens was drawing closer. The police were on their way.

_Don't forget to breathe. You're alright._

He didn't bloody well feel alright. He felt like someone was force choking the life out him, and enjoying every minute of it.

_I've got you._

"I've got you."

But it wasn't a phantom's voice he heard that time. Nor was it a phantom hand who'd grasped his own in a tight grip, anchoring him to the present. He let his eyes flutter open. Not a phantom at all, but _her._ Emma. Crouched on the ground beside him, wet hair plastered to her forehead, crooning comforting platitudes even as he fought to get a handle on himself.

"Bloody hell," he managed to choke out.

"There he is," she said with a small smile, giving his hand an extra squeeze. "It's okay. You're safe. Just breathe."

"Only..." he struggled to form the words. "If we keep this... between us?"

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "You've been doubled over in pain half the time I've known you. To me, it's just your default setting. You think I'll think any less of you because you have a bad reaction to being shot at?"

"Not good… for the image."

She snorted with amusement. "Shut up and breathe, Jones. You can worry about your macho reputation later."

It helped, the banter. It chased away the worst of it, back into the darkened hidey hole in the back of his mind where he preferred to keep it. He could feel the air returning to his lungs, the streetscape behind her steadying under his gaze.

"I'm breathing," he said with a relieved half-laugh.

"Good boy," she said, patting him on the arm with her free hand. "You keep that up."

"Why do I get the impression you're making fun, lass?"

"Only a little," she said with a grin in his direction, as she shifted her weight from one knee to the other. "And only because I like you."

"You like me?" His words sounded far too much like an over-eager child for his liking, though they made Emma laugh. It was a nice laugh, the kind he wouldn't mind hearing again.

"Don't take it personally, Jones. I like everyone who saves me from being gunned down in a drive-by."

"Big Christmas card list then?"

"It's a select club," she admitted with a smile. "But it's only February."

* * *

It wasn't long before the area was a tangle of police officers, paramedics, and dazed civilians shuffling around draped in shock blankets.

"You ever had a panic attack before?" The woman EMT asked, after she'd finished taking his pulse.

Seeking medical attention had not been his idea. It was Emma who'd offered him up like a lamb to slaughter when the woman had first approached them, still huddled by the remains of Killian's shot out car. He'd not even been able to get a word in edgewise.

"Not for a long time. Years."

"You take any medication for that?"

He shook his head. "I thought they'd stopped."

The woman eyed him doubtfully, but she didn't pursue it. "Your friend mentioned some pre-existing injuries." His gaze shot across to where Emma stood some twenty feet away, a uniformed police officer taking her statement. _Bloody traitor_. "Anything you want me to take a look at?"

"Nothing some rest and relaxation won't cure, lass," he said, hopping down from the back of the ambulance with a barely disguised hiss of pain. "I'm sure you have more important things to do."

"You sure now?"

"Quite," he said with a forced smile, before turning away.

He waited for Emma to finish giving her version of events to the young uniform before he seized his chance, grabbing her by arm and pulling her out of sight of the milling police.

"Did they buy it?"

"What? That I just had a sudden hankering for a frappucino and we found ourselves at the wrong place at the wrong time? Sure."

"You're certain? If Wendy mentions our little chat-" But before he could finish voicing his concerns, Emma had grabbed him by the elbow, and was already dragging him out from their hiding place.

"See that kid in the army surplus jacket?" Emma said, with a jerk of her chin to her left.

Killian saw the skinny youth she meant, sitting on the curb beside a plain clothes detective, head in his hands.

"Aye?"

"Mid-level dealer. Or so my new friend, Mr Fresh Out of The Academy tells me." She raised her eyebrows significantly.

"They think this was drug related?"

"That's the most logical angle, wouldn't you say?"

Killian considered her carefully. "And what would  _you_  say, lass?"

She frowned, her lips forming into a thin line. "I'd say I don't believe in coincidences."

"Aye. Neither do I. I'll get my statement out of the way, and then I'm going to have to make a call. You alright to drive?" He asked, fishing his keys from his pocket.

"For real?" She asked, as he tossed them in her direction. She caught the keys one-handed, the flicker of a smile as her fist closed around them.

He shrugged. "Under the circumstances, you could hardly do her any more damage."

She flipped him off, but kept the keys.

"That is, if you manage to convince your new friend to let us move her, that is."

Emma turned back to the young cop who'd questioned her earlier, sizing him up. "I could give it a shot."

"Excellent. You do that. I'll give my best impression of being a hapless bystander. We'll reconvene in ten."

"And if I don't convince him?" Emma asked.

"I have every confidence in you, Swan," he said, with an absent pat to her shoulder as he began walking away. "And a receipt for a steak lunch in my wallet to remind me why."

* * *

They made a stop at a convenience store a few blocks away, Killian ducking in for some Saran Wrap while Emma stayed put to deter any would-be car thieves. Not a permanent solution, but it would make driving around in a rainstorm a degree less miserable.

"So what did she say?" Emma asked without preamble, as she stood watching him try to tape up the passenger side window.

"Who, lass?" he asked absently, struggling to find the edge of the duct tape.

Emma merely rolled her eyes, taking the tape from him and tearing off a long strip with her teeth.

"She claims it wasn't her," Killian continued at last, as he took it from her, taping down the first layer.

"And what do  _you_  think?" Emma asked, in imitation of his earlier words.

"I think that if Regina Mills wanted me dead, I would be. But since she's the only person I know for a fact is keeping tabs on our whereabouts, it was only polite to ask."

Emma snorted unkindly. "Yeah, okay. So who  _is_  trying to kill us?"

"No idea. Presumably whoever got Pan out of the way. Perhaps even Pan himself, trying to elude capture. Or someone under his employ. To be perfectly frank, Emma, I'm not sure I care any longer either way."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, lass," Killian said, patting down the last of the tape, and giving the door an experimental slam. "It means I'm pulling the plug."

Emma's eyes went wide. "Pulling the plug? Are you kidding me? You're giving up?"

"No,  _we're_  giving up. My next call is to Gold, informing him we're off the case. Then I was thinking I might spray paint it in silver on the side of my car, just so everyone really gets the message."

"You can't be serious."

"You're right, Swan. Silver isn't quite eye catching enough. Perhaps red would be better. Really draw the eye."

He made to move back towards the passenger door, but Emma blocked his path, her arms folded over her chest. "You can't give up now. We're close. We've gotta be. Why else would someone bother coming after us?"

"Why else indeed?" he said, stepping around her. "Look, Swan, I like money as much as the next bloke, but I did not sign up to be cannon fodder. Nor to watch you become the same. Rest assured, you'll get your share. I'll make sure of it."

"That's what you think I'm worried about?" Emma asked, hurrying up behind him. "Jones, it's not about the money. It's the principle of the thing!"

He whirled around suddenly, surprised to find Emma directly on his heels, so close he might've been tempted to take a half step back, if he hadn't wanted to lose face. "Principles?" he scoffed. "Let me tell you what happened to the most principled man I ever met, darling. He tried to intervene in a bad situation, and ended up with a hole in his chest the size of a quarter. Take it from me, Emma. Principles are not all they're cracked up to be."

"You're making a mistake," Emma said, still far too close.

"Am I?" Killian wondered aloud. "Well then, if so, I'm prepared to live with that. Now if you'd be so kind, my keys. It's time I drove you home."

"You're in no condition-"

"On the contrary. I'm feeling better every second. Keys." He said, holding his palm out defiantly.

Her eyes narrowed, the fight in them not quite extinguished. "Sure," she said at last, keys dangling from one finger. "You can take me home. You can call Gold. But first, one condition."

Killian rolled his eyes at the lass's moxy. "And what might that be?" he sneered.

"A drink," she said, dropping the keys into his palm. "We're going for a drink."

* * *

"This is ill-advised, lass," Killian grumbled, as they pulled into the parking lot behind The Rabbit Hole. "You do recall the last time we were out in public someone took a potshot at us?"

"Exactly," Emma said, to his surprise. "A potshot. Not a hit. If someone really wanted to kill us, we'd be dead. It was a message."

"One you seem intent on ignoring," he mumbled, but of course she paid him no mind.

"C'mon," she said, leaning over to unclip his seatbelt, as if he were nothing more than a recalcitrant child. After an afternoon full of indignities, it did nothing to help his sour mood.

"So our defenses will be lowered next time someone takes a shot at us? Or so someone can steal my car while we're inside?"

She gave him a level look. "Get the fuck out of the car, Jones. Or I'll drag you."

As much as he might have liked to see her try, the familiar surroundings also brought with them the uncomfortable memory of watching Emma Swan best a man nearly twice her size, only days before. And that man hadn't been injured at the time.

With no small reluctance, he followed her inside, taking a seat beside her at the bar. The place was busier than he'd anticipated, the booths filled to capacity with people already getting a head start on happy hour.

"Well this is a pretty picture," came the annoyingly jovial voice of August Booth as he sauntered into view. "You guys have heard of an umbrella, haven't you?" he asked, taking in their generally bedraggled appearance. "It's not new technology."

"Spare me the lecture," Emma said, placing two twenties down on the bar. "A whisky sour for me and a rum for the grumpy old man. And some clean towels, if you have any."

August looked from the money, to their equally joyless expressions, back to the money again. "Coming right up."

A thought occurred to Killian, just as August returned, bearing two tumblers and and a bundle of unused bar towels. "How exactly did you know I like rum?"

Emma fixed him with an unimpressed look. "Because I pay attention."

"The night we met?"

She nodded, raising her glass wordlessly to her lips.

"You're wasted in bail bonds, lass."

She shrugged. "Like police work pays any better?"

"Well, a pension is not to be sneezed at. But there's always the private sector."

"Because you're doing so well?" Emma asked pointedly.

Instead of replying, Killian merely downed the rest of his drink, and signaled August for another. "Back in a second, lass," he said, rising from his stool.

He almost made it to the men's room before he felt the tug on his arm, looking around to see Emma standing there with round, apologetic eyes.

"Look," she said, "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm just… I don't like this. We were getting along, weren't we? I mean, I thought we were getting along."

"We were getting along," Killian confirmed.

"And now?"

He gave a loud exhale. "Now I'm going to the men's room." And shaking her loose, he disappeared behind the swinging door before she could stop him.

* * *

She was still there in the hallway when he emerged five minutes later, finally grown bored of his own weary reflection.

"Please tell me you haven't been standing there the whole time."

"Here," she said, procuring Killian's next tumbler of rum from behind her back. "Peace offering."

He accepted it with a grateful nod.

"I got us a booth," Emma said, leading the way back out into the main bar. "I thought maybe you weren't in the mood for listening to our bartender practice his pitch for his conference call with Sony tomorrow."

"I'm much obliged to you, Swan," he said, with a small raise of his glass in her direction, as he followed her back out into the main bar.

The booth she'd commandeered was cosy enough, with a window opposite where the blinds had been opened, leaving a good view of the parking lot.

"So we'll be able to see if anyone actually tries to break into your car," she added, as they took their seats.

It was a thoughtful gesture, and between that and the rum sliding down his throat, Killian felt something awfully close to guilt begin to gnaw at his better nature.

"My brother was shot," Killian said suddenly, the words rising to his lips before he could bite them back. "Right in front of me. So I'm sorry if I seem out of sorts, I just..."

"Naturally find getting shot at kind of traumatic," Emma finished for him.

"Aye."

It was easier to stare at his glass on the table than it was to meet her eyes during the uneasy silence that followed.

"He always was an insufferable do-gooder," he continued, though he had no idea why he was telling her these things. "This whole private detection schtick was his idea in the first place. He'd just come out of the Navy. I'd just had my first real heartbreak. It'd be a fresh start, he said. Private detectives in Los Angeles. I think he watched too many reruns of The Rockford Files as a kid. Should probably be grateful the Firebird isn't gold."

He chanced a glance in her direction, just in time to see the ghost of a smile form on her lips.

"We were in a convenience store when a man came in wearing a mask. Armed robbery. My brother tried to be stupidly noble, wrestle the gun away from him. He… didn't make it."

"What was his name?" Emma asked, her hand hovering above the table top slightly, like she wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"Liam."

"The other Jones in Jones & Jones Investigations, I'm guessing?"

"Aye. That'd be the one."

"I like that you kept the name," she said, causing Killian to look up at her curiously. "And the car."

"Well," he said, with a small twist of a smile. "I confess the car's grown on me a bit."

"My car's stolen," Emma said suddenly, surprising him again. "I stole it when I was 17."

"But that isn't what you went to prison for?" He'd read her arrest report, and grand theft auto had been nowhere on it.

"No, I went to prison because the guy I loved set me up to take the fall for a watch heist he pulled. But he did send me the keys to the Bug while I was inside. New plates, new VIN. As far as half-assed apologies go, I've had worse."

If it had been him, Killian might have taken the thing for a long drive off a short pier, and he said as much.

Emma shrugged. "It's good to have a reminder."

"That this lad deserves a good kneecapping?" Killian suggested.

"That no one was going to look out for me," Emma clarified. "So I'd just have to look out for myself."

_An orphan's mantra if ever there was one._

"And yet you're prepared to put yourself in the line of fire for Peter Pan, of all people?" Killian asked, incredulously. " A spoiled brat with zero self-control and no apparent grasp of grammar?"

"He's just a kid, Killian!" Emma said, her anger finally exploding outwards. "A kid no one would even notice was missing if they weren't all desperate to make money off of him. C'mon! Tell me that doesn't piss you off, just a bit?"

So this was it. The heartfelt plea. She knew what she was doing, he'd give her that. Beating a man while he was down. Making him feel like a monster. Making him crave her approval. Lulled into complacency by four fingers of rum and a sob story.

"Of course it does, Swan. But I'm not in the habit of feeling sorry for people with lounge suites larger than my entire apartment. Nor do I feel inclined to stick my neck out for them."

"Well I'm telling you that someone needs to. Because no one else gives a shit about that kid. Not really. And look, I get it. It's dangerous. You don't really want your head blown off, and honestly, who could blame you? But I'm staying on the case. I already called Belle and let her know. With or without you, I'm not giving up. Not yet. Not when we finally have confirmation there's some larger scheme at play here."

"Love-"

"Emma," she corrected, her drink halfway to her lips.

" _Emma_ ," he amended through gritted teeth. "If you think you can get me to do what you say, simply by putting yourself in harm's way..."

She scoffed. "That's not what I'm trying to do."

"Yes. It is," he said, snatching her drink out of her hands, and setting it down on the table. "You think some long buried sense of chivalry will override any of my misgivings, and I'll be forced to stay around to help you."

She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Is it working?"

She was a wily one. Why did he always like the wily ones?

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Get your jacket, love. I'm taking you home."

* * *

The drive back to Silver Lake was quiet, save for the plastic thrum of the Saran Wrap buffeting against the wind. There was no need to say anything. Her serene smile under the glow of the streetlamps said enough. The lass had won the day, and there was no point pretending otherwise.

He parked in the shadow of a nearby tree, moving to climb out as she did.

"I think I can make it fifty feet without incident, Jones."

"Humor me," he drawled. "Besides, you were the one who was so keen to keep me around."

With a shrug of her shoulders, she let him fall into step behind her, climbing the concrete steps up to her door one at a time.

"Want to come in?" she asked, fumbling inside her jacket for her keys.

"Best not."

"What if there's an assassin hiding in my closet?"

Killian smirked. "Then I wish them good luck. They'll need it."

She turned around to regard him for a moment, cocking her head to the side as if she was deliberating over something.

"I'd like you to come inside, Killian," she said at last, her eyes softening a fraction.

Her use of his first name surprised him. But not quite so much as the warmth with which the invitation was delivered. Like she'd actually meant it. And Killian Jones was capable of a great many things, but of denying Emma Swan a sincere request?  _Not bloody likely._

"Then by all means," he said with a wave of his hand. "Lead on."

* * *

Her apartment looked no better by night, still just a shabby bolthole, in a rabbit warren of other shabby boltholes. But as he lowered himself onto her couch with a ragged sigh of relief, he thought perhaps it had a few redeeming qualities.

"Here," she said, emerging from the kitchen bearing a glass of water and a number of white tablets. "Should do the trick."

He swallowed them down readily, draining the glass after in one smooth motion.

"Better?" she asked, shifting his legs to sit down beside him.

"Give it a moment, Swan," he said, setting the glass back down on the coffee table.

"Something to distract you while you wait?" she asked.

His first thought had been Netflix. Or perhaps more half-baked theories as to who exactly had been using them for target practice. But when Emma instead rolled over and straddled his lap, he had to reassess a few things.

"Swan?" But the time for talking, it seemed, was done. With one hand trailing up to twist into his hair, she pulled his lips to hers, and he felt himself sinking, sinking into beautiful oblivion.

Killian had always known Emma Swan was a bit of a spitfire. Considering their first meeting had necessitated a skin tight dress and gratuitous use of pepper spray, that was hardly surprising. And from the first, he'd been attracted. Garishly attracted.

But perhaps he'd been underestimating exactly what it would feel like, to have all of that intensity, all of that  _heat_ , directed at him. She was, in a word, an inferno. And as he pulled her closer, returning the kiss with equal fervor, he thought it might be a good thing to burn. A very good thing indeed.

"What happened…" he said, as he broke away for breath, "... to not dating clients?"

He could feel her mouth stretch into a grin, even as she left a trail of kisses along his jawline. "That's not… what I'm suggesting," she whispered, her lips ghosting over his earlobe, making him instantly hard.

"That's probably not..." he said, grabbing her by the chin so that he could devour her lips once more, "... a good idea."

"Yeah," she agreed with an experimental roll of her hips that left him breathless and wanting. "But I don't really care."

And after another moment of delicious friction, Killian found he didn't much care either. Not until he made to remove his jacket, only to have his entire left side erupt in pain.

"Bloody hell," he hissed. "Fighting injured here, lass," he said, with a grunt of frustration. But instead of taking that as a red light, Emma instead seemed to take it as a personal challenge, reaching forward to slide his jacket off his shoulders herself.

"Gently does it," she whispered, as she leaned in to undo his shirt buttons, one at a time. "If we're going to do this, you're going to have to trust me."

"Trust you?" he repeated, looking into her eyes properly for the first time since she'd instigated this little encounter. She was breathtaking so close up, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes shining brightly. A bloody siren on a sand bank. And if he wasn't mistaken, just a bit pleased with herself.

"Yeah. Think you can do that, Jones?"

There was no denying it. He was a ruined man.


	8. Theories of Crime

**In which progress is made, of a kind.**

_"There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself."_

_\- The Long Goodbye_

For the second time that day, Killian could feel his own heartbeat thudding inside his ears. Only this time, there was no hail of bullets, no imminent danger. Just the woman with the wicked grin, dipping low to suck a kiss into the exposed skin above his heart.

Bloody hell, this woman.

He still wasn't sure exactly what he'd done or said that had led to this abrupt turn of events. All he knew, as her lips dragged lower still, was he hoped he might do it again.

She was incendiary. She was incredible. She was still far too clothed for what Killian had in mind. She was… ringing.

"Lass?"

Her lips stilled against his skin, and he heard it again. The very distinctive sound of a cell phone, vibrating in her jeans pocket.

"Holy shit! It's alive." She rolled off him in an instant, her eyes now lit with a very different kind of excitement as she dug the phone out of her pocket.

Killian's lust-fogged brain was still coming to terms with the rapid switch in gears, even as she sat spellbound by the device that had grown silent in her palm.

"Is that…?"

"The phone we had charging in the kitchen? Yup. Guess your rice trick worked, Jones."

_Jones._  He wondered whatever had happened to Killian.

He must have looked as put out as he felt, because her eyes flicked back up to meet his, and for a moment she seemed almost regretful. She leaned over, and brushed a consolatory kiss to his lips, staying close. Maddeningly close. "Rain check?" she murmured.

As if he could deny her anything, when her breath still mingled with his.

He nodded, once, and her relieved smile punctured him somewhere under the ribs, right where he was already struggling to breathe.  _Bloody hell._  He was going to need a bracing shower after this.

"All this for a phone I pulled out of a koi pond, Swan?"

"Well, you're the detective," she said, tossing said phone into his lap, her eyes already scanning the floor for the sweater she'd tossed away in the heat of their clinch. "What do you think?"

He hissed as the rectangle made contact with his more sensitive parts, but managed to catch it against his leg before it was lost under the sofa cushions. His curiosity piqued, he stabbed at the home button and watched the device fire to life.

It appeared remarkably undamaged, considering its aquatic origins. After a moment a lock screen appeared, demanding a passcode. And the background image? Only a selfie of Peter Pan with a bloody iguana.

"Swan?" he called, already rising to his feet. "Do you mind if I use your shower quite quickly?"

* * *

"Coffee?" Emma offered, as he forced himself into the cramped quarters of her Volkswagen Beetle.

She'd insisted, and with the Firebird still down a few windows, it seemed unwise to argue the point. At least he'd graduated to the passenger seat this time.

He declined the coffee, but instead watched in dazed fascination as she took a swig from the thermos she'd brought along for the purpose, her lips smacking very distractedly when she was done.

"What?" she asked, catching him staring.

"Isn't that hot?"

She shrugged, screwing the cap back on, and Killian returned his attention to the task at hand.

"So where are we headed, exactly?" he asked, as Emma stowed away the thermos under her seat. "I mean, it's one thing to suspect we have Peter's phone. But there's still the small problem of the code. I don't suppose your random bail enforcer expertise extends to phone hacking, lass?

"That won't be a problem," she said matter-of-factly, grabbing it out of his hand.

"Siri," she said, holding up a hand to keep Killian quiet. "What's the time?"

To Killian's amazement, the phone answered her request, and in doing so, provided the very back door Emma needed. A few taps and swipes later and she was in, Peter Pan's unlocked iPhone sitting defenceless in the palm of her hand.

At Killian's questioning look, she merely shrugged. "Common design flaw. Just be happy he doesn't have an Android. That would have taken me twice as long."

He looked from her, back to the phone, back to her. "That was quite scary, Swan."

"Scary good, right?" she said, nudging his elbow with hers.

In a manner of speaking. From a privacy standpoint, it was a little concerning. "And where did you learn such a thing?"

"YouTube."

_Ah._  But before he could ruminate too long on how out of touch he was, she handed it back to him, her face expectant.

"Well?" she said, fingers thrumming against the steering wheel. "Are you gonna tell me who we need to shake down next, or are we just going to sit here?"

Right. The phone. Peter Pan's phone. The only lead they had.

Killian opened the call log, and scanned through it. Literally hundreds of missed calls. Most of them from contacts whose names were now annoyingly familiar. Tink. Felix. Curly. Boss Man, who Killian would venture to guess meant Mr Gold. A few from numbers that weren't programmed.

Killian opened up voice mail, setting the phone on the dash on speaker so they could both listen.

_"Babe? Babe? I'm sorry I was out of line. Are you still mad at me? Babe? Pick up if you're there."_

_"Yo' . Where you at? I thought you said we were recording today? Call me, or I will not be held responsible for what Nibs does in your bed."_

_"Hi Peter, this is Belle calling from Mr Gold's office again. Just a reminder that when you get this message to please get in touch right away. We're all very worried."_

They continued in much the same fashion. Confused Lost Boys. Increasingly irate management. Tear-laden pleas from Tink that got less intelligible and less repentant as they went on.

It was only about fifteen messages in that things started to get interesting.

The number was blocked, but there was no mistaking the cold fury of the speaker.

_"You think you can just have her? You think you can just take what's mine? After everything we've done for you? After we MADE you? You have no idea what you've started. You have no idea what I can do to you."_

"Is that…?" Emma started.

"Aye."

She brew out a breath. "Okay, so I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's incriminating."

His eyes met hers in the reflection of the darkened windscreen. He saw the fear in her eyes. He saw the resolve settling in her jaw. And always, always, that tiny smirk that meant she was down to do something stupid.

"Beverly Hills," Killian gasped out, reaching over to fasten his seatbelt. "And gun it."

* * *

She wasn't answering her phone.

It didn't necessarily mean the worst, but it did mean gaining access to her fortress might be a tad difficult. Killian was willing to bet she'd beefed up her security after he'd last wandered in unannounced.

"Timothy Drake?" the man at the gate repeated into his radio, holding Killian's rather counterfeit drivers license up for inspection by the dim lighting of his little hut. A fake, yes, but one he'd used before. One she would recognize.

There was no response on the radio. Not so much as a crackle.

It was a silence that seemed to unnerve the guard, a trickle of sweat sliding down the side of his face which seemed at odds with the climate.

"I err… I'm sorry, sir. With no one at the house able to confirm your authorisation…" The guard trailed off, very much hoping they would get the drift without his actually having to turn them away. A non-confrontational sort, working security with a Glock strapped to his side. Such a rare breed. Such an… opportunity.

Killian took out his phone for a moment, as if to relay the bad news, leaning back against the Bug as he typed. The guard stepped closer to hand back his license, and Killian accepted it, pasting on a regretful expression.

"Of course. I completely-" Then just as the man was straightening up Emma swung open her door, catching the guard unawares and forcing him to the ground. Killian had him disarmed in seconds, the Glock now pointed in his direction. Emma, from her position in the front seat, was holding a similar stance with the pistol she'd just retrieved from under her seat.

The man gaped, the power shift too rapid for his uncomprehending brain. The sound of Emma cocking her pistol seemed to bring the reality of the situation home for him a little, judging by the way the blood drained from his face.

Killian smiled a cruel smile. "The code for the gate, if you'd be so kind."

* * *

Killian's first thought was to leave Emma to mind the guard while he checked out the house, but once again, he'd forgotten exactly who he was dealing with.

Emma Swan, bail recovery agent, did not travel unprepared.

Her glove compartment was more than simply a source of high-calorie non-perishable snack foods, but a veritable cornucopia of anything with which one might need to subdue a perp in a hurry. Duct tape. Zip ties. A taser or two.

"Bloody hell," he'd said, the reflection of metal catching his eye as he dug through the contents. "Is that a fucking hatchet?"

"Why?" Emma asked, leaning over to grab a handful of zipties. "What do you keep in your glove compartment? A comb? Breath mints?" She raised one eyebrow.

She was, no question, the sexiest and perhaps the scariest woman he'd ever met.

It spoke to her experience how soon she had that guard trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey, zip-tied to the desk in his little hut, with duct tape over his mouth. Ordinarily, Killian might've found this to be a wonderful opportunity to delve deeper into Emma's evident predilection for bondage, but the sight of silent tears streaming down the man's face had the words catching in his throat.

No, this wasn't the time for flirting. They were holding a man against his will, and who knew what dangers lay in wait for them past those gates? Instead he settled for checking the man's restraints, making sure they weren't too tight.

They wouldn't have long. They only needed one more person to drive up to the gate before the alarm would be raised, and an army of well-paid, well-trained and well-armed security personnel would descend. Killian could only hope the residents of this exclusive community had all called it an early night, or else that their dark deeds would keep them out until dawn.

It was never a good sign, he thought, when one had to rely on blind hope.

* * *

Regina's estate, for want of a better word, seemed quiet. The windows to the main house were dark, and there was no sign of any staff still lingering on the grounds. More importantly, no sign of attack dogs, hungering for human flesh.

Killian kept the guard's gun to hand as he took his first few steps into Regina's expansive foyer, which seemed much more like a mausoleum by moonlight than he remembered.

"Nice digs," Emma said with a low whistle. "Who said crime doesn't pay?"

"Oh, it pays alright." At the unexpected voice, both he and Emma whirled around, guns drawn.

A figure stepped from behind a pillar clad in a patterned silk robe, a knife clutched it one bony hand.

It was Regina, but not as Killian remembered her.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light, before he saw the situation for what it was. She wasn't lurking behind that pillar, she was leaning on it. And her robe? It wasn't patterned with anything but blood.

Instinctively, Killian rushed forward, just in time to catch her as the knife fell from her hands, her body crumpling against the marbled floor.

"Fuck, fuck," Emma said, crouching down beside him, her jacket already off to use as a tourniquet.

Killian reached for Regina's hands, finding them cold and slippery in his grasp. "Trouble with the help?" he asked, stripping off his own jacket to put around her shoulders. She was shivering now, and he didn't know if that was from the blood loss or the shock. Perhaps both.

"Graham," she groaned, as Emma applied pressure to the wound. "He took Pan."

Aye, that creepy voicemail on Peter's phone had been left by someone with a very distinctive accent. One that might go unnoticed in County Antrim, but tended to stick out in Southern California.

Graham Humbert. Regina's boytoy. Occasional underwear model, and faithful lapdog. Clearly Killian would have to update that assessment. This one seemed to have turned rabid.

"This is a lot of blood," Emma said, moving her hands to show how it had soaked through her ad-hoc bandage. "You'd better decide if you're calling an ambulance, because she's not gonna stay conscious for much longer."

Rather than surrendering to unconsciousness, Regina's gaze seemed to sharpen. "No ambulance," she snapped. It was almost like being shot by a member of her inner circle might reflect badly on her. That was career criminals all over, so concerned with reputation. But with the guard at the gate currently a bit tied up, he couldn't entirely bring himself to hide his relief.

"Call Victor," she implored Killian, her words careful, even as her teeth chattered. "You have his number?"

Victor Whale. Practising plastic surgeon for the ruling elite. Down low sawbones for anyone rich enough and desperate enough to need a bullet taken out on the sly.

Killian placed the call. The man on the other end sounded perfectly suspicious, right up until Killian provided the address.

He would be there in ten minutes. Five, if he broke a couple of traffic laws.

With help on the way, Regina's energy reserves seemed to flag, her eyelids fluttering shut, her weight heavier across his lap.

"I bet you're loving this," she said, even as her eyes remained closed.

To Killian's surprise, he could still emit a dry chuckle. "On the contrary, darling. When I have a woman boneless in my arms, I'd rather it was through my own efforts, if you understand my meaning."

She might have smiled at that, but it was difficult to tell, with the amount of pain she was in. "I wouldn't blame you," she said, as though he'd never made his attempt at levity. "I'm not a nice person. I certainly wasn't nice to you."

No, not particularly. The part where she'd deliberately tanked his business afterwards had been especially  _not_  nice.

"I wasn't nice to Graham," she continued, and he wasn't sure how to feel about this new, self-aware Regina. "I liked to bait him. Tease him. Stoke his jealousy." All tried and true maneuvers Killian recalled only too well from the Regina Mills playbook of  _How We Treat Our Pets_. "He thinks I was fucking Peter Pan. He was jealous. And after you showed up here-"

_He got desperate_ , Killian finished in his head.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was motive.

For a man insecure enough to fall into Regina's clutches, it was reason enough to take Peter Pan out of the picture. For a man without the stomach for outright murder, removing the competition by way of kidnap might seem like a good way to go. And it was certainly reason enough to try to scare off the only people who cared enough to keep looking for him with a casual drive-by.

All it would have taken was a curt demand for a progress report from Sidney to tell him exactly where Killian and Emma had been, using Regina's vast sphere of influence to his own ends. To lead him straight to the unassuming coffee shop on Ventura, where they'd questioned Wendy.

But just like the incriminating voicemail, it was sloppy. Easily traceable. And Regina may have been many things, but she was no one's fool. After Killian's call post-shooting, she would've joined the dots. She already had someone tailing Killian around town. The odds that two parties would have stumped up the cash for surveillance on a failing private detective and his bounty hunter freelancer? No, she wasn't a fool. One phone call to Sidney would've confirmed it.

Clearly the confrontation hadn't gone down quite how she imagined. Not if the bullet hole she was currently sporting was any clue.

"Where would he take him?" Killian asked, the urgency of his query pressing on him as Regina's breathing leveled out. "Regina, where would Graham go?"

But Regina, granted a measure of mercy she probably didn't deserve, had already passed out.


End file.
